JJ^ 


THE    HUMBLER    POETS. 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS 


A  COLLECTION    OF 


NEWSPAPER   AND    PERIODICAL  VERSE 


1870  TO   1885 


BY  SLASON   THOMPSON 


THIRTEENTH   EDITION 


CHICAGO 

A.   C.   McCLURG  &   CO. 
1911 


9/1 
T47C, 


COPYRIGHT, 

BY  JANSEN,  MCCLURG,  &  Co. 
A.D.  1885. 


EXPLANATORY. 


IT  has  been  said  that  "he  is  no  common  benefactor 
who  shrewdly  gathers  from  the  world's  manifold 
literature  its  words  of  finest  wit  and  maturest  wis- 
dom for  our  entertainment,  instruction,  and  inspiration." 
But  it  is  not  well  at  all  times  to  partake  of  the  richest 
dishes  or  to  drink  the  rarest  wines.  The  finest  wit  and 
the  maturest  wisdom  may  be  read  too  oft.  There  come 
hours  to  every  lover  of  poetry  when  he  wishes  for  "  some 
simple  and  heart-felt  lay,"  something  that  shall  speak 
from  out  a  mind  feeling  the  e very-day  cares  of  life  amid 
the  multitude,  and  not  from  the  heights  to  which  the 
masters  "proudly  stooped."  It  was  this  feeling  that, 
some  fifteen  years  ago,  led  me,  a  prose-thinker,  to  begin 
collecting  from  newspapers  and  the  ephemeral  literature 
of  the  day  such  verses  as  suited  my  mood,  or  which 
seemed  the  utterance  of  a  soul  that  had  put  its  thoughts 
into  song.  Upon  the  fly-leaf  of  my  first  scrap-book, 
surrounded  by  some  now  faded  natural  leaves  of  oak, 
maple,  bilberry,  and  Virginia  creeper,  and  two  withered 
sprays  of  trailing  arbutus,  I  find  the  misquotation  from 
Lovers  Labor  Js  Lost^  "  As  though  he  had  been  at  a  feast 
of  languages  and  stolen  the  scraps."  The  succeeding 
pages  show  that  it  was  not  from  a  feast  of  languages,  but 
from  the  daily  board  of  wayfaring  humanity,  that  such 
scraps  were  gleaned.  In  the  course  of  years,  and  dur- 
ing successive  changes  of  residence  from  the  extreme 
East  to  San  Francisco  and  back,  the  collection  grew  until 
it  contained  over  a  thousand  poems.  A  friend  suggested 
the  collocation  of  the  most  valuable  into  some  permanent 


6  EXPLANATORY. 

form.  My  sister,  far  removed  from  me  as  the  crow  flies, 
but  near  in  sentiment  and  appreciation  of  the  songs  that 
"quiet  the  restless  pulse  of  care,"  offered  the  use  of  her 
contemporaneous  collection  for  the  work.  To  her  I  am 
indebted  for  some  eighty  of  the  more  truly  poetical  pieces 
included  in  this  volume.  Two  friends  in  Chicago  placed 
their  collections  at  my  disposal,  from  which  I  was  able 
to  add  some  twoscore  poems  to  my  store.  These  inde- 
pendent sources  served  a  further  purpose  to  establish 
the  character  and  fairly  exhaustive  scope  of  my  own 
collection. 

Then  came  the  difficult  task  of  selection.  My  scraps 
bore  no  patent  of  nobility,  no  royal  stamp  to  show  they 
came  from  the  mint  of  poetic  inspiration.  Hundreds  of 
them  were  without  a  sign  to  afford  a  clew  to  their  parent- 
age. Where  the  estimate  of  time,  popular  favor,  and 
literary  criticism  has  served  as  a  guide-post  to  other  col- 
lectors, the  very  nature  of  this  collection  denied  it  to  me; 
therefore  I  have  been  forced  to  fix  an  arbitrary  standard 
of  my  own  by  which  every  separate  piece  was  judged. 
The  invariable  question  has  been,  "  Does  this  poem  or 
narrative  in  verse  contain  anything  worth  rescuing  from 
oblivion  ?  "  Under  this  rule  it  will  readily  be  perceived 
I  could  not  exact  anything  like  the  approach  to  perfection 
demanded  in  a  collection  making  claim  to  represent  the 
best  specimens  of  English  verse.  I  could  not  require 
that  each  piece  should  contain  what  was  best  worth  pre- 
serving, but  only  that  it  should  contain  something  worth 
preserving  at  all.  The  latitude  admitted  by  such  a  prin- 
ciple of  selection  will  account  for  the  unevenness  of  this 
collection  as  a  whole.  Some  of  the  pieces  are  full-fledged 
poems,  complete  in  form,  spirit,  and  finish,  and  undoubt- 
edly deserve  to  rank  higher  up  than  in  The  Humbler 
Poets.  Some  are  mere  snatches  of  song  and  story 
"wedded  to  rhyme,"  while  others  are  little  more  than 
suggestions  of  beautiful  ideas  struggling  through  halting 
metre  and  homely  jingles.  Several  are  only  the  rude 
setting  for  one  or  two  good  lines  or  happy  thoughts. 
Some  of  these  hedgerow  poems  contain  the  germ  for 
others  by  master  hands.  Who  now  can  say  that  Long- 
fellow did  not  borrow  the  thought  —  even  some  of  the 
very  words  —  for  his  description  of  the  baby,  in  The 


EXPLANATORY.  7 

Hanging  of  the  Crane,  from  as  lowly  a  source  as  My 
Lost  Baby,  page  47,  when  he  wrote,  — 

u  He  ruleth  by  the  right  divine 
Of  helplessness,  so  lately  born 
In  purple  chambers  of  the  morn, 
As  sovereign  over  thee  and  thine  "  ? 

It  may  be  asked  upon  what  principle  I  have  drawn  the 
line  of  exclusion  from  this  volume.  My  answer  is  that  it 
has  been  drawn  almost  arbitrarily  along  the  line  of  the 
collected  works  of  the  Lesser  Poets, — as  Bret  Harte, 
R.  H.  Stoddard,  Helen  Hunt  Jackson,  Celia  Thaxter, 
Austin  Dobson,  Frederick  Locker,  W.  W.  Story,  R.  Wu 
Gilder,  Mary  Mapes  Dodge,  Theodore  Tilton,  Joaquin 
Miller,  Louisa  M.  Alcott,  Elizabeth  Akers  Allen,  Paul  H. 
Hayne,  William  Winter,  Harriet  Prescott  Spofford,  Ben- 
jamin F.  Taylor,  Lucy  Larcom,  Ella  Wheeler,  Louise 
Chandler  Moulton,  Dinah  Mulock  Craik,  H.  C.  Bunner, 
Mary  Clemmer,  T.  B.  Aldrich,  J.  T.  Fields,  and  others, 
may  without  offence  be  called.  It  is  possible,  and  even 
probable,  that  this  volume  may  contain  some  fugitives  from 
between  the  covers  of  the  works  of  these  contributors 
to  the  periodical  poetry  of  the  day,  or  even  from  higher 
sources.  But  I  have  taken  what  the  lawyers  would  call 
the  reasonable  care  of  a  reasonable  man  to  reduce  the 
chances  of  such  a  fault.  The  range  of  poetry  in  the  Eng- 
lish tongue  is  now  so  vast  as  to  put  it  beyond  the  study 
of  a  lifetime  to  possess  the  memory  of  everything  in  it. 

That  my  rule  has  not  been  lived  up  to  in  one  or  two 
instances  will  find  excuse,  I  trust,  in  the  character  of  the 
pieces  in  whose  favor  the  exceptions  have  been  made. 
The  selections  credited  to  Francis  W.  Bourdillon  are 
notable  instances  where  I  have  let  down  the  fence  to 
admit  poetry  that  found  its  way  into  my  scrap-books 
before  the  author  thought  to  call  it  within  an  enclosure  of 
his  own. 

Less  than  twenty  selections  found  in  the  numerous 
standard  collections,  which  have  been  consulted  indus- 
triously, have  been  retained  in  this.  No  apology  seems 
necessary  for  the  retention  of  The  Burial  of  Moses,  Tired 
Mothers,  The  Blue  and  the  Gray,  Our  Last  7*oast,  Light, 
and  The  King's  Picture.  They  fall  naturally  into  the 


8  EXPLANATORY. 

companionship  of  this  volume,  and  are  not  generally  ac- 
cessible to  a  large  body  of  readers  of  poetry.  Rain  on 
the  Roof  is  included  for  the  reason  assigned  in  an  accom- 
panying note.  The  Water-Mill  has  been  a  fugitive 
without  a  father  so  long,  that  this  opportunity  was  taken 
to  name  its  author.  William  Cullen  Bryant  had  the 
courage  to  give  the  Beautiful  Snow  a  place  in  his 
Library  of  Poetry  and  Song,  although  denied  sanctuary 
by  Dana  and  other  editors.  As  it  appears  in  this  volume 
the  last  verse  has  been  restored.  Some  readers  may 
be  interested  in  comparing  it  with  the  Beautiful  Snow 
written  by  Major  Sigourney,  who  was  long  credited  with 
the  authorship  of  the  more  famous  poem. 

As  the  reader  comes  to  the  end  of  poem  after  poem  in 
this  collection  well  worthy  the  pen  of  a  master,  but  with- 
out a  sign  to  show  whence  it  came,  he  must  remark  the 
result  of  one  of  the  most  inexcusable  faults  of  modern 
journalism.  Some  newspapers  make  it  a  rule  not  to 
publish  the  names  of  their  own  writers  who  contribute 
poetry,  while  others  systematically  reprint  verses  with 
only  the  name  of  the  publication  from  which  they  are 
clipped,  ignoring  the  signature  appended  to  the  original 
verse.  From  the  blank  spaces  at  the  foot  of  the  un- 
claimed poems  in  this  volume  there  rises  an  appeal  to  the 
publishers  of  newspapers  to  do  a  small  justice  to  the 
minor  poets  of  the  English  tongue.  It  says  with  irre- 
sistible logic,  "  If  a  poem  is  worth  publishing  at  all,  its 
author  is  worthy  of  recognition." 

Little  more  remains  to  be  said.  It  is  not  pretended 
that  all  the  selections  herein  were  written  within  the 
years  mentioned  on  the  titlepage.  Indeed,  some  of 
them  are  "  old  vagrants,"  and  the  date  of  many  more  it 
is  impossible  to  fix,  for  newspaper  poetry  travels  in 
cycles,  the  same  piece  turning  up  in  the  same  "  Poet's 
Corner"  about  once  in  seven  years.  Unlike  standard 
collections  from  the  best  authors,  this  volume  contains 
a  very  small  percentage  of  poems  to  be  found  elsewhere. 
It  preserves  many  that  would  otherwise  have  perished 
by  the  wayside,  —  lost  for  want  of  a  collector.  It  is  sui 
generis.  Perhaps  it  may  inspire  future  editions  to  which 
a  more  exacting  standard  of  excellence  can  be  applied. 
If  in  its  pages  there  is  shown  the  possession  of  a  dis- 


EXPLANATORY.  9 

criminating  judgment  regarding  the  treasures  "more 
golden  than  gold,57  irrespective  of  their  lowly  source,  let 
it  be  attributed  to  an  early  study  of  Mr.  Francis  Turner 
Palgrave's  Golden  Treasury,  which  I  regret  to  say  some 
ill-equipped  editor  has  attempted  to  gild  with  modern 
alloy. 

If  the  pleasure  I  have  taken  in  collecting  my  scraps 
here,  there,  and  everywhere,  and  the  labor  I  have  be- 
stowed in  bringing  them  within  the  compass  of  this  vol- 
ume,—  the  doubting  judgment  respecting  some  and  the 
regret  of  rejecting  others,  —  if  this  shall  be  the  means 
of  preserving  many  of  the  better  fugitive  verses  of  the 
period ;  if  to  any  man  or  woman,  youth  or  maiden,  it  shall 
give  a  worthy  book  to  take  from  the  shelf  when  the  tasks 
for  the  day  are  all  done  ;  if  any  shall  find  herein  some 
familiar  but  mislaid  verse ;  if  its  pages  shall  recall  for- 
gotten scenes  to  some  and  whisper  in  the  ear  of  "unevent- 
ful toil "  some  strains  of  the  music  that  is  everywhere ; 
if  its  leaves  shall  bring  a  balm  of  hope,  encouragement, 
and  sweet  content  to  some  despondent  heart ;  if  its  final 
moral  shall  teach  some  frail  and  weary  wight  that  love, 
truth,  and  mirth  are  unfailing  comforters,  comrades, 
friends,  —  I  shall  be  satisfied. 

S.  T. 

CHICAGO,  Octobert  1885. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 13 

PART 

I.    OF  POETS  AND  POETRY 23 

II.    AMONG  THE  LITTLE  FOLK 37 

III.  FOR  CHRISTMAS  TIDE 77 

IV.  UNDER  THE  OPEN  SKY 91 

V.  LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP    ....  123 

VI.  ECHOES  OF  THE  PAST 167 

VII.  IN  THE  TWILIGHT 199 

VIII.  HOME  AND  FIRESIDE 217 

IX.  HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  AND  CONTENTMENT  .  233 

X.  LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY     .    .  277 

XI.  WITH  A  STORY  TO  TELL 329 

XII.  PARTING  AND  ABSENCE 355 

XIII.  TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW 365 

XIV.  EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS 381 

XV.  WAR  AND  PEACE 405 

XVI.    COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  AND  EPITAPH  .    421 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 453 


INDEX    OF    TITLES. 


PAGE 

Accursed 366 

"  Across  the  Lot " C.  S. 326 

Afeared  of  a  Gal 135 

Aftermath,  The James  Hendry     .    .     .  199 

A  Girl 's  a  Girl  for  A'  That 445 

Ah!  Me 158 

All  the  Same  in  the  End      ....    Isaac  Ross 450 

Antony  and  Cleopatra Gen.  W.  H.  Lytle      .    .  143 

Any  One  Will  Do 431 

Ash  Pool,  The 365 

Asking 152 

As  Pebbles  in  the  Sea 263 

Astronomical 437 

At  Home Bernard  Barton  .     .     .  217 

At  Last 410 

At  Sea P.  W.  Bourdillon     .     .  185 

At  the  Court-House  Door 392 

At  the  Loom 285 

At  the  Piano 212 

Autumn 112 

Baby  in  Church 70 

Baby-Land George  Cooper  ....  37 

Baby  Over  the  Way,  The    ....    Rev.  Washington  Gladden  61 

Baby's  Letter 46 

Baby's  Rattle,  A 48 

Bald-Headed  Tyrant,  The    ....     Mary  E.  Vandyne  .     .  43 

Bar-Tender's  Story,  The       ....     David  L.  Proudfit    .     .  397 

Bean-Blossoms 100 

Beautiful  Grandmamma 59 

Beautiful  Snow James  W.  Watson  .     .  371 

Beautiful  Snow Major  Sigourney      .     .370 

Before  Sailing 357 

Bertie's  Philosophy Eva  M.  Tappan  ...  66 

Better  to  Climb  and  Fall 240 

Beyond  the  Haze 266 

"Bide  a  Wee,  and  Dinna  Fret"    .     .    S.  E.  G 261 

Billy's  Rose 330 

Bird  on  the  Telegraph  Wire,  The 96 

Birthday  Greeting,  A M.  E.  F 162 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The Francis  Miles  Finch    .  413 

Blue  and  the  Gray,  The 412 


14  INDEX   OP    TITLES. 

PAGE 

Boat-Horn,  The 177 

Bottom  Drawer,  The Mary  A.  Barr     .     .     .  194 

Boys'  Rights     ........     Carrie  May      ....  67 

Brandy  and  Soda   .......     Hugh  Howard     .     .     .  447 

Bridge  of  Life,  The 277 

Brook  Song,  A Eugene  Field  ....  109 

Burial  of  Moses,  The       .....     Mrs.  C.  F.  Alexander  .  310 

By  and  By 241 

By  the  Sea 291 

Calumny Mrs.  Frances  Osgood  .  367 

Captive  Humming-Bird,  The    .     .     .    Joel  T.  Hart  ....  94 

Card  Houses 65 

Chalcedony Emma  Pomeroy  Greenough  123 

Character  and  a  Question,  A 280 

Cheerful  Heart,  The 233 

Children's  Bedtime,  The 55 

Children's  Music,  The P.  M.  Owen    ....  57 

Chimes  of  Old  England,  The   .     .     .     Bishop  Coxe     ....  294 

Chimney  Nest,  The Mary  B.  Dodge   ...  93 

Christmas  Bells 82 

Christmas  Camp  on  the  San  Gabr'el      Amelia  Barr  .     .    „    .  79 

Christmas  Outcasts 82 

Christmas  Shadows 84 

Christinas  Song,  A Mrs.  Hattie  S.  Russell .  78 

Christmas  Treasures Eugene  Field  ....  81 

Church  Steps,  The George  T.  Poster      .     .  320 

Churning  Song,  The  ......     Silas  Dinsmore    .     .     .  391 

Cigarette  Vagary,  A Camilla  K.  von  K.    .     .  421 

City  Contrasts 382 

Cleopatra's  Dream J.  J.  Owens   ....  147 

Cleopatra's  Soliloquy Mary  Bayard  Clark     .  146 

Cleopatra  to  Antony Sarah  Doudney    .     .     .  144 

Cloud,  The 120 

Clover,  The JamesWhitcomb Riley  .  105 

Cob  House,  The Kate  Putnam  Osgood  .  64 

Cockney  Wail,  A 426 

"Coming  Man,"  The 41 

Compensation 258 

Conceit,  A Mortimer  Collins      .     .  136 

Conquered  at  Last Maria  L.  Eve       .     .     .  416 

Constant  Friend,  The E.  F.  Ware    .     .     .     .  160 

Content 267 

Contentment Will  S.  Hayes      .     .     .  267 

Contentment 266 

Conversational 438 

Could  n't  Keep  a  Secret 126 

Countersign  was  Mary,  The      .     .     .    Margaret  Eytinge    .     .  407 

Court  of  Berlin,  The 351 

Creeping  Up  the  Stairs Rev.  W.  S.  McFetridge  57 

Curtain  Falls,  The Joseph  Verey  .     .     .     .  341 

Dan's  Wife Mrs.  Kate  Tannatt  Woods  224 

Darwinism  in  the  Kitchen 425 

Days  That  Are  No  More,  The 168 

Dead  in  His  Bed A.  L.  Ballou   ....  387 

Deed  and  a  Word,  A Charles  Mackay  ...  29 

Delights  of  Camp  Life 439 

Deserted 368 

Dolce  Far  Niente Charles  Graham  Halpine  161 


INDEX  OP    TITLES.  15 


PAGE 


Do  Something Lucy  Larcom  ....  253 

Dreams 175 

Drifted  out  to  Sea Rosa  Hart-wick  Thorpe  .  348 

Driving  Home  the  Cows      ....     Kate  Putnam  Osgood    .  405 

Duty's  Reward 399 

Eliab  Eliezer James  Roann  Reed .     .  292 

Elswitha Mary  Barry   ....  203 

Encore 228 

"  En  Voyage  " Caroline  A.  Mason  .     .  271 

Exiles,  The 222 

Explanation,  An Walter  Learned  .     .     .  154 

Failure 242 

Fairy  Faces 78 

Fallen Geo.  Edgar  Montgomery  250 

False  and  True 264 

Fate 360 

Father  John 401 

Fifty  Years  Apart 211 

Firelight,  In  the Eugene  Field  ....  54 

Fisherman  Job James  Roann  Reed  .     .  330 

Flotsam  and  Jetsam 290 

Flower  from  the  Catskills,  A    .     .     .    E.  W. 101 

Fool's  Prayer,  The E.  R.  Sill 300 

Forever 180 

For  Life  and  Death 346 

Fortune  My  Foe Alfred  P.  Graves     .     .  217 

Fred  Englehardt's  Baby Charles  Pollen  Adams .  62 

French  with  a  Master Theodore  Tilton  .     .     .  134 

Friend  or  Foe? F.  E.  Weatherly  .    .     .  129 

Friendship 160 

Friendship,  Love,  and  Truth 161 

Frivolous  Girl,  The 153 

Gentleman  Jim Daniel  CPConnell     .     .  400 

Give  Me  Rest 322 

"  Give  Thanks  for  What  ?" 256 

Going  Home  in  the  Morning    .     .     .     Wayne  Douglas  .     .     .  385 

Going  Softly 271 

Golden  Side,  The 254 

Gone 184 

"Good-by" Grace  Denio  Litchfield  .  355 

Goodest  Mother,  The 63 

Good-Night Hester  A.  Benedict   .     .  358 

Gran'ma  Al'us  Does 52 

Green  Grass  under  the  Snow,  The      .     Annie  A.  Preston     .     .  255 

Growing  Old Margaret  E.  Sangster  .  208 

Guilty,  or  Not  Guilty  ? 388 

Hardest  Time  of  All,  The   ....     Sarah  Doudney   ...  262 

Haunted  Chambers 171 

Hawthorn 190 

Heads,  Hearts,  and  Hands  ....     George  W.  Bungay  .     .  247 

Heart's-Ease 103 

Heliotrope 104 

Her  Name 72 

Highway  Cow,  The Eugene  J.  Hall  .     .     .  440 

Hindoo  Sceptic,  The 303 

Hindoo's  Death,  The George  Birdseye   .     .     .  442 

Hint,  A 44 

His  Messenger 361 


1 6  INDEX  OP    TITLES. 

PAGE 

Home-Coming 218 

Home  is  Where  the  Heart  is 218 

Hope  Deferred 360 

Humming  of  the  Wires,  The    .     .     .     Edward  A.  Rand    .     .  384 

Hymn  to  Santa  Rita Aluey  A.  Adee     .     .     .  154 

Ideal  Future,  An T.  A.  Harcourt  .     .     .  317 

If  I  Should  Die  To-night     ....    Arabella  E.  Smith    .     .  309 

If  We  Knew  ;  or,  Blessings  of  To-day    Mrs.  May  Riley  Smith  207 

If  You  Want  a  Kiss,  Why,  Take  It 423 

Improved  "  Enoch  Arden  " 443 

In  a  Graveyard 319 

In  Bay  Chaleur Hezekiah  Butterworth  .  343 

In  Praise  of  Wine 421 

In  Snow-Time 118 

In  the  Hammock 150 

Indecision 133 

Interrogation  Mark  (?) P.A.LeH.     .     .     .     .  286 

Invocation  to  Poesy,  An      ....     Charles  Mackay  ...  23 

It  is  Common 32 

I  Wud  Knot  Dye  in  Wintur 427 

oy  of  Incompleteness,  The 238 

ubilate 158 

udge  Not 294 

Cing's  Picture,  The Helen  B.  Bostwick    .     .  30 

King's  Ships,  The Caroline  Spencer       .     .  322 

Kiss  in  the  Rain,  A 138 

Last  and  Worst Prances  Ekin  Allison    .  376 

Last  Arrival,  The George  W.  Cable  ...  41 

Late  October D.M.Jordan,      .     .     .  116 

Lavender 192 

Lay  Me  Low 313 

Learn  to  Wait 240 

Leedle  Yawcob  Strauss Charles  Pollen  Adams  .  62 

L'Envoy Randolph     .     .     .  136 

Lesson  in  Mythology,  A      ....    Eliza  C.  Hall  ....  434 

Life 279 

Life 279 

Life  (A  Literary  Curiosity)      .     .     .    Mrs.  H.  A.  Deming     .  283 

Life  and  Death 288 

Life  or  Death E.  B .  314 

Life's  Triumph Thomas  S.  Collier     .     .  236 

Light F.  W.  Bourdillon     .     .  125 

Light  and  Love 129 

Like  His  Mother  Used  to  Make    .     .     James  Whitcomb  Riley  227 

Lily  and  the  Linden,  The     ....     Dr.  Pred  Crosby  .     .     .  106 

Lines  by  an  Old  Fogy 437 

Lines  on  a  Grasshopper 438 

Little  Church  Round  the  Corner,  The    A.  E.  Lancaster  ...  305 

Little  Conqueror,  The 69 

Little  Goldenhair P.  Surge  Smith  ...  58 

Little  Peach,  The Eugene  Field  ....  428 

Little  Phil Mrs.  Helen  Rich      .     .  329 

Little  Stitches 226 

Living 289 

Lost  Babies,  The 182 

Lost  Letter,  A       Clement  Scott  ....  378 

Lost  Sheep,  The Sally  Pratt  McLean     .  205 

Love  and  Labor 236 


INDEX  OP    TITLES.  17 

PAGE 

Love  and  Pity 125 

Love  of  the  Past,  The 167 

Love's  Belief 128 

Love's  Life,  A 124 

Love's  Logic 130 

Love's  Transfiguration 127 

u  Lulu  " Carrie  IV.  Thompson    .  69 

Mad,  Mad  Muse,  The James  Whitcomb  Riley  445 

Magdalena 244 

March 444 

Mattie's  Wants  and  Wishes 51 

Memories 169 

Memory 168 

Merry  Christmas 77 

Message  of  the  Rose,  The 99 

Message  of  Victory,  The      ....     Augusta  Webster      .     .415 

Meteors Anna  Ph.  Eichberg      .  109 

Midges  in  the  Sunshine 290 

Miller  and  the  Maid,  The     .     .     .     .     F.  N.  Scott      ....  137 

Model  Church,  The John  H.  Yates     ...  299 

Moon  and  Dawn 117 

Mother 185 

Mother's  Blessing,  The 202 

Music  in  the  Soul 140 

My  Aim G.  Linnceus  Banks  .     .  277 

My  Cigarette C.F.  Lummis      .     .     .  214 

My  Daughter  Louise Homer  Greent      .     .     .  356 

My  Josiar 159 

My  Lost  Baby 47 

My  Lost  Love 186 

My  Mother's  Hands Ellen  M.  H.  Gates  .     .  221 

Narrow  House,  The 316 

Nearing  Port C.  P.  R 321 

Near  the  Dawn 243 

Nelly  Tells  How  Baby  Came    .     .     .     Thomas  S.  Collier    .     .  38 

Nestlings F.  C.  A 92 

New  Baby,  The 45 

New  Magdalen,  The R.  L.  Cary,  Jr.    ...  345 

New  Year,  A 86 

Night  and  Morning 307 

Ninety-Nine  in  the  Shade     ....     Rossiter  Johnson       .     .  426 

Nocturne 24 

No  Sect  in  Heaven     .     .     .      Mrs.  Cecelia  Jocelyn  Cleveland  296 

Nothing  at  all  in  the  Paper  To-day 381 

"  Now  I  Lay  Me  Down  to  Sleep  " 53 

October D.  M.  Jordan     ...  115 

October 115 

Old  Deacon's  Lament,  The      .     .     .    Mrs.  E.  T.  Corbett  .     .  178 

Old  Fiddling  Josey Irwin  Russell ....  435 

Old  Friends 162 

Old  Rhyme,  An 153 

Old  Song,  An 176 

Old  Time  and  I Mark  Lemon   ....  440 

One  by  One 170 

Only 356 

Only  a  Baby 39 

Only  a  Bit  of  Childhood  Thrown  Away  Maud  Moore   ....  74 

Only  a  Woman Hester  A.  Benedict  .     .  370 

2 


1 8  INDEX   OP    TITLES. 

PAGE 

Only  Joe James  Roann  Reed  .     .  335 

Orchard-Lands  of  Long  Ago,  The     .    J 'antes  Whit  comb  Riley  191 

Our  Childhood's  Home R.  S. 172 

Our  Darling 44 

Our  Last  Toast Bartholomew  Dow  ling  .  409 

Our  Own Margaret  E.  Sangster  .  223 

Outcast,  The Mary  L.  Ritter    ...  364 

Outcast's  Dream,  The Olive  Bell 336 

Outwards  or  Homewards      .     .     .     .     F.  W.  Bourdillon    .     .  238 

Out  West 446 

"Owed"  to  My  Pocket-Book 430 

Pansies Sarah  Doudney  ...  96 

Parson's  Comforter,  The      ....     Frederick  Langbridge  .  323 

Parting Coventry  Pat  more     .     .  355 

Pastor's  Reverie,  The     ....      Rev.  Washington  Gladden  188 

Patient 265 

Pat's  Letter Queerquill 429 

Pessimism 251 

Phantom  of  the  Rose,  The  ....     Jerome  A.  Hart  ...  98 

Plea  for  "Castles  in  the  Air,"  A  .     .     Jacob  Gough   ....  239 

Poetic  Mystery,  The 24 

Poetry  and  the  Poor W.  Wai  sham  Stovue     .  25 

Poker 449 

Poor  Little  Joe 340 

Prairie  Path,  The no 

Prince  of  Peace,  The 308 

Promise 108 

Pull-Back,  A 433 

Query,  A 287 

Rabbi's  Present,  The .     .  432 

Rain 108 

Rain  in  the  Heart 256 

Rain  on  the  Roof Coates  Kinney      ...  27 

Rain  upon  the  Roof,  The    ....    Mrs.  F.  B.  Gage      .    .  26 

Rainy  Day,  A 173 

Recipe  for  a  Poem 32 

Rest 319 

Rest 182 

Rest  at  Eventide Thomas  D*Arcy  Me  Gee  312 

Rest  in  the  Grave 315 

Retribution David  L.  Proud/it    .     .  334 

Retrospection Garnet  B.  Freeman      .  270 

Retrospection 187 

Reunited  Love R.  D.  Blackmore      .     .  131 

Right  and  Wrong 260 

Ring's  Motto,  The 151 

Robin  's  Come William  W.  Caldwell  .  91 

Rocking  the  Baby Madge  Morris      .     .     .  229 

Rock  of  Ages Ella  Maud  Moore    .     .  305 

Roll-Call N.  G.  Sh&pard     ...  406 

Romance,  A Eugene  Field  ....  439 

Rosebud's  First  Ball 68 

Rose-Bush,  The 97 

Sabbath  Bells,  The 296 

Saddened  Tramp,  A 439 

Saddest  Fate,  The 259 

Sad  Ventures 359 

Satisfied Hester  A.  Benedict  .     .  269 


INDEX  OP    TITLES.  19 

PAGE 

Scandal-Mongers 390 

Seaside  Incident,  A    ......     Marc  Cook 436 

Sea's  Love,  The P.  E.  Weatherly  ...  132 

Sermon  in  a  Stocking,  The 220 

Shadows 284 

Silence Lynch      ....  238 

Silence  of  Love,  The Hamilton  Drummond  .  157 

Sister  Madeleine Clare  Everest  ....  373 

Slander 367 

Somehow  or  Other 249 

Some  Sweet  Day Lewis  J.  Bates    .     .     .  304 

Sometime Mrs.  May  Riley  Smith  234 

Sometimes Louisa  F.  Story    .     .     .  163 

Song  for  the  Girl  I  Love,  A       ...     Frederick  Langbridge  .  156 

Song  for  the  Hot  Winds,  A      ...     Harriet  M.  Davidson    .  219 

Songs  in  Sleep Rev.  Wm.  C.  Richards  211 

'Specially  Jim B.  M. 433 

Stone  the  Woman,  Let  the  Man  Go  Free 396 

Story  of  the  Gate Harrison  Robertson       .  149 

Such  a  Duck 431 

Summer  Picture,  A in 

Telegraph  Clerk,  The 384 

Tete-a-Tete 138 

That  Amateur  Flute 449 

That  Boy 54 

Thine  Eyes John  F.  Ballantyne      .  154 

This  Year  —  Next  Year 124 

Though  Lost  to  Sight,  to  Mem'ry  Dear 361 

Through  Life 280 

Through  Toil A.  L.  Hinds    ....  248 

"Time  to  Me" 248 

Tired 204 

Tired  Mothers Mrs.  May  Riley  Smith  225 

Tired  Out 272 

Told  at  the  Tavern Theo.  F.  Havens      .     .  332 

To-morrow 348 

Too  Great  a  Sacrifice 430 

To  Thine  Own  Self  be  True     .     .     .     Pakenham  Beatty    .     .  302 

Trailing  Arbutus Henry  Abbey  ....  101 

Trout-Brook,  The Carl  Waring  .     .     .     .  119 

Trust 393 

Turned  Out  for  Rent M.  L.  S.  Burke   ...  391 

Turning  Over  the  New  Leaf 87 

Twilight  Dreams 200 

Twilight  Reverie,  A 213 

Twilight's  Hour W.  F.  E.  L     .     .     .     .  199 

Two 350 

Two  Men  I  Know 424 

Two  Pictures 281 

Two  Robbers F.  W.  Bourdillon      .     .  313 

Undowered Harriet  McEwen  Kimball  157 

Unfinished  Prayer,  The 53 

Unfinished  Still 174 

Unspoken  Words 31 

Upon  the  Threshold G.  E 85 

Vagrant,  A Josephine  Pollard     .     .  175 

Vanquished Francis  F.  Browne       .  415 


20  INDEX  OP    TITLES. 

PAGE 

Violet's  Grave,  The Vicortari 105 

Wabash  Violets Earl  Marble   ....  394 

Waiting John  Burroughs  .     .     .  255 

Waiting 246 

Wanderer,  The John  C.  Fremont     .     .  180 

Wanderer,  The Eugene  Field .     .     .     .  108 

Washing-Day 46 

Watching  for  Papa 50 

Water-Lily,  The Mary  Frances  Butts     .  97 

Water-Mill,  The Sarah  Doudney  ...  395 

Wedded 140 

Welcome,  Little  Stranger     ....     Charles  Fallen  Adams  .  39 

We  Love  but  Few 156 

We  Shall  be  Satisfied S.  K.  Phillips  .     ...  325 

What  Have  I  Done  ? Lillian  Blanche  Fearing  283 

What  House  to  Like 272 

What  is  His  Creed  ? 301 

What  Life  Hath Sarah  Doudney  ...  235 

What  My  Lover  Said Homer  Greene      .     .     .  126 

What  of  That? 260 

What  They  Dreamed  and  Said      .     .     M .  E 108 

When  My  Ship  Comes  In    .     .     .     .    Robert  J.  Burdette  .     .  237 

When  the  Cows  Come  Home   .     .     .    Mrs.  Agnes  E.  Mitchell  205 

"  When  the  Frost  is  on  the  Punkin  "     James  Whit  comb  Riley  117 

WThen  Will  Love  Comp ?      .     .     .     .     Pakenham  Beatty     .     .  123 

Where  Ignorance  is  Bliss 153 

While  We  May Susan  Coolidge    ...  193 

Who  Gather  Gold Andrew  B.  Saxton  .     .  290 

Who '11  Tend  Baby? E.  E. 72 

Why  ? Maud  Moore   ....  73 

Why  Drink  Wine Dr.  Henry  Aldrich  .     .  442 

Why  Is  It  So  ? 282 

Why  Truth  Goes  Naked 422 

Winter 113 

Winter 113 

With  the  Tide 281 

Woman's  Complaint,  A 210 

Woman's  Wish,  A Mary  A.  Townsend     .  212 

Work 261 

World  and  I,  The Nelly  M.  Hutchinson  .  268 

Yearning 202 

Yellow-Hammer's  Nest,  The    .     .     .    John  W.  Chad-wick       .  95 

"Yes" R.  D.  Blackmore      .     .  130 

Yes  ? H.  C.  Bunner       ...  141 

Yes ! George  H.  Jessop  .     .     .  142 

Zoology 435 


PART   I. 
anti 


If  to  embody  in  a  breathing  "word 

Tones  that  the  spirit  trembled  -when  it  heard; 

To  fix  the  image  all  unveiled  and  warm. 

And  carve  in  language  its  ethereal  form. 

So  pure ',  so  perfect,  that  the  lines  express 

No  meagre  shrinking,  no  unlaced  excess  ; 

To  feel  that  art,  in  living  truth,  has.  taught 

Ourselves,  reflected  in  the  sculptured  thought ;  — - 

If  this  alone  bestow  the  right  to  claim 

The  deathless  garland  and  the  sacred  name; 

Then  none  are  poets,  save  the  saints  on  high, 

Whose  harps  can  murmur  all  that  "words  deny. 

•  •  •  •  • 

So  every  grace  that  plastic  language  knows 
To  nameless  poets  its  perfection  owes. 
The  rough-hewn  words  to  simplest  thoughts  confined 
Were  cut  and  polished  in  their  nicer  mind  ; 
Caught  on  their  edge,  imagination's  ray 
Splits  into  rainbows,  shooting  far  away  ;  — 
From  sense  to  soul,  from  soul  to  sense,  it  flies, 
And  through  all  nature  links  analogies  ; 
He  who  reads  right  will  rarely  look  upon 
A  better  poet  than  his  lexicon. 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES- 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


PART  I. 

anli 


AN  INVOCATION  TO  POESY. 

STAY  with  me,  Poesy  !   playmate  of  childhood  ! 

Friend  of  my  manhood  !  delight  of  my  youth  ! 
Roamer  with  me  over  valley  and  wildwood, 

Searching  for  loveliness,  groping  for  Truth. 
Stay  with  me,  dwell  with  me,  spirit  of  Poesy  ; 

Dark  were  the  world  if  thy  bloom  should  depart  ; 
Glory  would  cease  in  the  sunlight  and  starlight, 

Freshness  and  courage  would  fade  from  my  heart. 

Stay  with  me,  comfort  me,  now  more  than  ever, 

When  years  stealing  over  me  lead  me  to  doubt 
If  men,  ay,  and  women,  are  all  we  believed  them 

When  we  two  first  wandered  the  green  earth  about  ! 
Stay  with  me,  strengthen  me,  soother,  adorner, 

Lest  knowledge,  not  wisdom,  should  cumber  my  brain, 
And  tempt  me  to  sit  in  the  chair  of  the  scorner, 

And  say,  with  sad  Solomon,  all  things  are  vain. 

Stay  with  me,  lend  me  thy  magical  mirror, 

Show  me  the  darkness  extinguished  in  light  ; 
Show  me  to-day's  little  triumph  of  Error 

Foiled  by  to-morrow's  great  triumph  of  Right  I 
Stay  with  me,  nourish  me,  robe  all  creation 

In  colors  celestial  of  amber  and  blue  ; 
Magnify  littleness,  glorify  commonness, 

Pull  down  the  false  and  establish  the  true. 


24  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Stay  with  me,  Poesy !    Let  me  not  stagnate  I 

Despairing  with  fools,  or  believing  with  knaves, 
That  men  must  be  either  the  one  or  the  other,  — 

Victors  or  victims,  oppressors  or  slaves ! 
Stay  with  me,  cling  to  me,  while  there  is  life  in  me  I 

Lead  me,  assist  me,  direct  and  control ! 
Be  in  the  shade  what  thou  wert  in  the  sunshine, 

Source  of  true  happiness,  light  of  my  soul ! 
Belgravia.  CHARLES  MACKAY. 


THE   POETIC   MYSTERY. 
(SUGGESTED  BY  "ALICE  IN  WONDERLAND.") 

"  POET,  sit  and  sing  to  me ; 

Sing  of  how  you  make  your  rhymes, 
Tweedledum  and  tweedledee, 

I  have  tried  it  fifty  times. 
When  I  have  a  perfect  sense, 

Then  I  have  imperfect  sounds  ; 
Vice  versa !    Tell  me  whence 

You  get  both,  I  neither/'     "  Zounds  1 " 

Cried  the  poet,  "  Don't  you  see 

Easy  't  is  as  rolling  log, 
Holding  eel  or  catching  flea, 

Meeting  friend  or  leaving  grog  I 
No  such  matter  should  annoy, 

Deep  the  poet  never  delves ; 
Take  care  of  the  sense,  my  boy, 

And  the  sounds  care  for  themselves." 


NOCTURNE. 
(AN  ECHO  OF  CHOPIN.) 

"When  we  seek  to  explain  our  musical  emotions,  we  look  about  for 
images  calculated  to  excite  similar  emotions,  and  strive  to  convey  through 
these  images  to  others  the  effect  produced  by  music  on  ourselves."  —  HAWEIS, 
Music  and  Morals. 

WIND,  and  the  sound  of  a  sea 

Heard  in  the  night  from  afar, 
Spending  itself  on  an  unknown  shore, 
Feeling  its  way  o'er  an  unseen  floor 

Lighted  by  moon  nor  star ; 


OF  POETS  AND  POETRY.  25 

Telling  a  tale  to  the  listening  ear 

Of  wounds  and  woes  that  the  rolling  year 

Hath  brought  to  the  human  heart ; 
Telling  of  passion  and  innermost  pain, 
Sinking  and  swooning,  and  growing  again, 

As  the  wind  and  the  waves  take  part ; 
Lifting  a  voice  to  the  voiceless  skies, 
Tender  entreaties  that  faint  for  replies, 
Pauses  of  sorrow  that  pass  into  sighs 

Born  of  a  secret  despair  ; 
Fluttering  back  on  the  clear  tide  of  tone, 
Gathering  in  force  till  the  melody  's  grown 
Strong  to  interpret  the  accents  unknown 

Haunting  the  dark  fields  of  air ; 
Speaking  the  longings  of  life,  the  full  soul's 
Hidden  desires  in  music  that  rolls 

Wave-like  in  search  of  a  shore  ; 
Eddies  of  harmony,  floating  around, 
Widen  in  circles  of  lessening  sound, 
Die  in  the  distance,  till  silence  is  found 

And  earth  redemands  us  once  more. 
All  the  Year  Round. 


POETRY  AND   THE   POOR. 

"  THE  world  is  very  beautiful !  "  I  said, 
As,  yesterday,  beside  the  brimming  stream, 
Glad  and  alone,  I  watched  the  tremulous  gleam 

Slant  through  the  wintry  wood,  green  carpeted 

With  moss  and  fern  and  curving  bramble  spray, 
And  bronze  the  thousand  russet  margin-reeds, 

And  in  the  sparkling  holly  glint  and  play, 
And  kindle  all  the  brier's  flaming  seeds. 

"  The  world  is  very  horrible !  "  I  sigh, 

As,  in  my  wonted  ways,  to-day  I  tread 
Chill  streets,  deformed  with  dim  monotony, 

Hiding  strange  mysteries  of  unknown  dread,  — 
The  reeking  court,  the  breathless  fever-den, 

The  haunts  where  things  unholy  throng  and  brood : 
Grim  crime,  the  fierce  despair  of  strong-armed  men, 

Child  infamy,  and  shameless  womanhood. 

And  men  have  looked  upon  this  piteous  thing,  — 
Blank  lives  unvisited  by  beauty's  spell,  — 

And  said,  "  Let  be :  it  is  not  meet  to  bring 
Dreams  of  sweet  freedom  to  the  prison  cell ; 

Sing  them  no  songs  of  things  all  bright  and  fair, 
Paint  them  no  visions  of  the  glad  and  free, 
Lest  with  purged  sights  their  miseries  they  see, 

And  through  vain  longings  pass  to  blank  despair." 


26  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

O  brother,  treading  ever-darkening  ways, 

O  sister,  whelmed  in  ever-deepening  care, 
Would  God  we  might  unfold  before  your  gaze 

Some  vision  of  the  pure  and  true  and  fair  ! 
Better  to  know,  though  sadder  things  be  known, 

Better  to  see,  though  tears  half  blind  the  sight, 
Than  thraldom  to  the  sense,  and  heart  of  stone, 

And  horrible  contentment  with  the  night. 

Oh,  bring  we  then  all  sweet  and  gracious  things 
To  touch  the  lives  that  lie  so  chill  and  drear, 
That  they  may  dream  of  some  diviner  sphere, 

Whence  each  soft  ray  of  love  and  beauty  springs  I 

Each  good  and  perfect  gift  is  from  above, 
And  there  is  healing  for  earth's  direst  woes ; 

God  hath  unsealed  the  springs  of  light  and  love, 
To  make  the  desert  blossom  as  the  rose. 

The  Spectator.  W.  WALSHAM  STOWE, 

Bishop  of  Bedford. 


THE  RAIN  UPON  THE  ROOF. 

LONG  ago  a  poet  dreaming, 

Weaving  fancy's  warp  and  woof, 

Penned  a  tender,  soothing  poem 
On  the  "  Rain  upon  the  Roof." 

Once  I  read  it,  and  its  beauty 

Filled  my  heart  with  memories  sweet ; 
Days  of  childhood  fluttered  round  me, 

Violets  sprang  beneath  my  feet. 
And  my  gentle,  loving  mother 

Spoke  again  in  accents  mild, 
Curbing  every  wayward  passion 

Of  her  happy,  thoughtless  child. 
Then  I  heard  the  swallows  twittering 

Underneath  the  cabin  eaves, 
And  the  laughing  shout  of  Willie 

Up  among  the  maple  leaves. 
Then  I  blessed  the  poet's  dreaming  — 

Blessed  his  fancy's  warp  and  woof, 
And  I  wept  o'er  memories  treasured, 

As  the  rain  fell  on  the  roof. 

Years  ago  I  lost  the  poem, 

But  its  sweetness  lingered  still, 

As  the  freshness  of  the  valley 

Marks  where  flowed  the  springtime  rill. 

Lost  to  reach,  but  not  to  feeling  ; 
For  the  rain-drop  never  falls 


OF  POETS  AND  POETRY.  27 

O'er  my  head  with  pattering  music, 

But  it  peoples  memory's  halls 
With  the  old  familiar  faces 

Loved  and  treasured  long  ago, 
Treasured  now  as  in  life's  springtime,— 

For  no  change  my  heart  can  know. 
And  I  live  again  my  childhood 

In  the  home  far,  far  away  ; 
Roam  the  woodland,  orchard,  wildwood, 

With  my  playmates  still  at  play ; 
Then  my  gray  hairs  press  the  pillow, 

Holding  all  the  world  aloof, 
Dreaming  sweetly  as  I  listen 

To  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

Every  pattering  drop  that  falleth 

Seemeth  like  an  angel's  tread, 
Bringing  messages  of  mercy 

To  the  weary  heart  and  head. 
Pleasant  thoughts  of  years  departed, 

Pleasant  soothings  for  to-day, 
Earnest  longings  for  to-morrow, 

Hoping  for  the  far  away ; 
For  I  know  each  drop  that  falleth 

Comes  to  bless  the  thirsty  earth, 
Making  seed  to  bud  and  blossom, 

Springing  all  things  into  birth. 
As  the  radiant  bow  that  scattereth 

All  our  faithlessness  with  proof 
Of  a  seedtime  and  a  harvest, 

So  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

MRS.  F,  B.  GAGE. 


RAIN  ON  THE  ROOF. 

WHEN  the  humid  shadows  hover 

Over  all  the  starry  spheres, 
And  the  melancholy  darkness 

Gently  weeps  in  rainy  tears, 
What  a  joy  to  press  the  pillow 

Of  a  cottage-chamber  bed, 
And  to  listen  to  the  patter 

Of  the  soft  rain  overhead ! 

Every  tinkle  on  the  shingles 
Has  an  echo  in  the  heart, 

And  a  thousand  dreamy  fancies 
Into  busy  being  start ; 


28  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  a  thousand  recollections 

Weave  their  air-threads  into  woof, 

As  I  listen  to  the  patter 
Of  the  rain  upon  the  roof. 

Now  in  memory  comes  my  mother 

As  she  used  in  years  agone, 
To  survey  her  darling  dreamers 

Ere  she  left  them  till  the  dawn : 
Oh  !  I  see  her  leaning  o'er  me, 

As  I  list  to  this  refrain 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain.  , 

Then  my  little  seraph  sister, 

With  her  wings  and  waving  hair, 
And  her  bright-eyed  cherub  brother  — 

A  serene,  angelic  pair !  — 
Glide  around  my  wakeful  pillow, 

With  their  praise  or  mild  reproof, 
As  I  listen  to  the  murmur 

Of  the  soft  rain  on  the  roof. 

And  another  comes  to  thrill  me 

With  her  eyes*  delicious  bluej 
And  forget  I,  gazing  on  her, 

That  her  heart  was  all  untrue  : 
I  remember  that  I  loved  her 

As  I  ne'er  may  love  again, 
And  my  heart's  quick  pulses  vibrate 

To  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

There  is  nought  in  art's  bravuras 

That  can  work  with  such  a  spell 
In  the  spirit's  pure  deep  fountains, 

Whence  the  holy  passions  swell, 
As  that  melody  of  Nature, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain, 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 

COATES   KlNNEY. 


NOTE.  —  This  charming  poem  was  so  long  a  vagrant  that  its  text  became 
very  much  corrupted  until  the  author  furnished  a  version  for  publication  in 
which  the  last  verse  read  as  follows :  — 

Art  hath  nought  of  tone  or  cadence 

That  can  work  with  such  a  spell 
In  the  soul's  mysterious  fountains, 

Whence  the  tears  of  rapture  well, 
As  that  melody  of  Nature, 

That  subdued,  subduing  strain, 
Which  is  played  upon  the  shingles 

By  the  patter  of  the  rain. 


OF  POETS  AND  POETRY.  29 

It  also  contained  several  minor  differences  in  reading  from  the  original. 
Where  considered  improvements,  they  have  been  adopted ;  but  as  a  poet's 
first  thoughts  are  often  his  best  thoughts,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  follow 
original  "copy"  where  it  seemed  to  chime  best  with  the  patter  of  the  rain. 
I  was  the  more  emboldened  to  do  this  by  the  fact  that  poets  are  proverbially 
unsafe  revisers  of  their  own  work.1  William  Cullen  Bryant  edited  the  life 
out  of  many  of  his  younger  passages,  while  Tennyson  i  later  days  has 
retouched  the  spirit  and  force  out  of  some  of  his  earlier  work. 


A  DEED  AND  A  WORD. 

A  LITTLE  stream  had  lost  its  way 

Amid  the  grass  and  fern ; 
A  passing  stranger  scooped  a  well, 

Where  weary  men  might  turn ; 
He  walled  it  in,  and  hung  with  care 

A  ladle  at  the  brink ; 
He  thought  not  of  the  deed  he  did, 

But  judged  that  all  might  drink. 
He  passed  again,  and  lo  1  the  well. 

By  summer  never  dried, 
Had  cooled  ten  thousand  parching  tongues, 

And  saved  a  life  beside. 

A  nameless  man,  amid  a  crowd 

That  thronged  the  daily  mart, 
Let  fall  a  word  of  hope  and  love, 

Unstudied,  from  the  heart ; 
A  whisper  on  the  tumult  thrown, 

A  transitory  breath  — 
It  raised  a  brother  from  the  dust, 

It  saved  a  soul  from  death. 
O  germ  !  O  fount  1  O  word  of  love ! 

O  thought  at  random  cast ! 
Ye  were  but  little  at  the  first, 

But  mighty  at  the  last, 

CHARLES  MACKAY. 

1  Here,  on  reading  the  note  in  manuscript,  Mr.  Francis  F.  Browne  inter- 
jected the  query,  "Is  it  a  fact?"  and  quoted  the  following  verses  from 
Gamier,  as  translated  by  Austin  Dobson:— • 

"  O  Poet !  then  forbear 

The  loosely-sandalled  verse; 
Choose  rather  thou  to  wear 
The  buskin,  straight  and  terse. 

"  Leave  to  the  tyro's  hand 

The  limp  and  shapeless  style ; 
See  that  thy  form  demand 
The  labor  of  the  file." 


30  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


THE  KING'S   PICTURE. 

THE  king  from  the  council  chamber 

Came,  weary  and  sore  of  heart ; 
He  called  to  Iliff,  the  painter, 

And  spoke  to  him  thus  apart : 
I  'm  sickened  of  the  faces  ignoble, 

Hypocrites,  cowards,  and  knaves ; 
I  shall  shrink  in  their  shrunken  measure, 

Chief  slave  in  a  realm  of  slaves. 

Paint  me  a  true  man's  picture, 

Gracious,  and  wise,  and  good, 
Dowered  with  the  strength  of  heroes 

And  the  beauty  of  womanhood. 
It  shall  hang  in  my  inmost  chamber, 

That,  thither  when  I  retire, 
It  may  fill  my  soul  with  its  grandeur, 

"  And  warm  it  with  sacred  fire." 

So  the  artist  painted  the  picture, 

And  it  hung  in  the  palace  hall ; 
Never  a  thing  so  lovely 

Had  garnished  the  stately  wall. 
The  king,  with  head  uncovered, 

Gazed  on  it  with  rapt  delight, 
Till  it  suddenly  wore  strange  meaning  — 

Baffled  his  questioning  sight. 

For  the  form  was  the  supplest  courtier's, 

Perfect  in  every  limb  ; 
But  the  bearing  was  that  of  the  henchman 

Who  filled  the  flagons  for  him  ; 
The  brow  was  a  priest's,  who  pondered 

His  parchment  early  and  late  ; 
The  eye  was  the  wandering  minstrel's, 

Who  sang  at  the  palace  gate. 

The  lips,  half  sad  and  half  mirthful, 

With  a  fitful  trembling  grace, 
Were  the  very  lips  of  a  woman 

He  had  kissed  in  the  market-place; 
But  the  smiles  which  her  curves  transfigured, 

As  a  rose  with  its  shimmer  of  dew, 
Was  the  smile  of  the  wife  who  loved  him, 

Queen  Ethelyn,  good  and  true. 

Then,  "  Learn,  O  King,"  said  the  artist, 
"  This  truth  that  the  picture  tells  — 

That  in  every  form  of  the  human 
Some  hint  of  the  highest  dwells; 


OP  POETS  AND  POETRY.  31 

That,  scanning  each  living  temple 

For  the  place  that  the  veil  is  thin, 
We  may  gather  by  beautiful  glimpses 

The  form  of  the  God  within." 

HELEN  B.  BOSTWICK. 


UNSPOKEN  WORDS. 

THE  kindly  words  that  rise  within  the  heart, 

And  thrill  it  with  their  sympathetic  tone, 
But  die  ere  spoken,  fail  to  play  their  part, 

And  claim  a  merit  that  is  not  their  own. 
The  kindly  word  unspoken  is  a  sin,  — 

A  sin  that  wraps  itself  in  purest  guise, 
And  tells  the  heart  that,  doubting,  looks  within, 

That  not  in  speech,  but  thought,  the  virtue  lies. 

But  't  is  not  so ;  another  heart  may  thirst 

For  that  kind  word,  as  Hagar  in  the  wild  — 
Poor  banished  Hagar !  —  prayed  a  well  might  burst 

From  out  the  sand  to  save  her  parching  child. 
And  loving  eyes  that  cannot  see  the  mind 

Will  watch  the  unexpected  movement  of  the  lips. 
Ah !  can  you  let  its  cutting  silence  wind 

Around  that  heart  and  scathe  it  like  a  whip  ? 

Unspoken  words  like  treasures  in  a  mine 

Are  valueless  until  we  give  them  birth  ; 
Like  unfound  gold  their  hidden  beauties  shine, 

Which  God  has  made  to  bless  and  gild  the  earth. 
How  sad  't  would  be  to  see  the  master's  hand 

Strike  glorious  notes  upon  a  voiceless  lute  ! 
But  oh,  what  pain  when,  at  God's  own  command, 

A  heart-string  thrills  with  kindness,  but  is  mute  ! 

Then  hide  it  not,  the  music  of  the  soul, 

Dear  sympathy  expressed  with  kindly  voice, 
But  let  it  like  a  shining  river  roll 

To  deserts  dry  —  to  hearts  that  would  rejoice. 
Oh,  let  the  symphony  of  kindly  words 

Sound  for  the  poor,  the  friendless,  and  the  weak, 
And  He  will  bless  you !    He  who  struck  the  chords 

Will  strike  another  when  in  turn  you  seek. 


32  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


IT  IS  COMMON. 

So  are  the  stars  and  the  arching  skies, 
So  are  the  smiles  in  the  children's  eyes : 
Common  the  life-giving  breath  of  the  spring; 
So  are  the  songs  which  the  wild  birds  sing,  — 
Blessed  be  God,  they  are  common. 

Common  the  grass  in  its  glowing  green ; 
So  is  the  water's  glistening  sheen : 
Common  the  springs  of  love  and  mirth ; 
So  are  the  holiest  gifts  of  earth. 

Common  the  fragrance  of  rosy  June ; 
So  is  the  generous  harvest  moon, 
So  are  the  towering,  mighty  hills, 
So  are  the  twittering,  trickling  rills. 

Common  the  beautiful  tints  of  the  fall ; 
So  is  the  sun  which  is  over  all : 
Common  the  rain,  with  its  pattering  feet ; 
So  is  the  bread  which  we  daily  eat,  — 
Blessed  be  God,  it  is  common. 

So  is  the  sea  in  its  wild  unrest, 
Kissing  forever  the  earth's  brown  breast ; 
So  is  the  voice  of  undying  prayer, 
Evermore  piercing  the  ambient  air. 

So  unto  all  are  the  "  promises  "  given, 
So  unto  all  is  the  hope  of  heaven : 
Common  the  rest  from  the  weary  strife  ; 
So  is  the  life  which  is  after  life,  — 
Blessed  be  God,  it  is  common. 


RECIPE   FOR  A   POEM. 

TAKE  for  your  hero  some  thoroughbred  scamp,  — 
Miner,  or  pilot,  or  jockey,  or  tramp,  — 
Gambler  (of  course),  drunkard,  bully,  and  cheat, 
Facile  princeps^  in  way  of  deceit ; 
So  fond  of  the  ladies,  he  's  given  to  bigamy 
(Better,  perhaps,  if  you  make  it  polygamy) ; 
Pepper  his  talk  with  the  raciest  slang, 
Culled  from  the  haunts  of  his  rude,  vulgar  gang ; 
Seasoned  with  blasphemy  —  lard  him  with  curses ; 
Serve  him  up  hot  in  your  "  dialect  "  verses  — 
Properly  dished,  he'd  excite  a  sensation, 
And  tickle  the  taste  of  our  delicate  nation. 


OF  POETS  AND  POETRY.  33 

Old  Mother  English  has  twaddle  enough ; 

Give  us  a  language  that 's  ready  and  tough ! 

Who  cares,  just  now,  for  a  subject  Miltonian? 

Who  is  n't  bored  by  a  style  Addisonian  ? 

Popular  heroes  must  wear  shabby  clothes  ! 

What  if  their  diction  is  cumbered  with  oaths  I 

That 's  but  a  feature  of  life  Occidental, 

Really,  at  heart,  they  are  pious  and  gentle. 

Think,  for  example,  how  solemn  and  rich  is 

The  sermon  we  gather  from  dear  "  Little  Breeches  "  I 

Is  n't  it  charming  —  that  sweet  baby  talk 

Of  the  urchin  who  "  chawed  "  ere  he  fairly  could  walk  ? 

Sure,  't  is  no  wonder  bright  spirits  above 

Singled  him  out  for  their  errand  of  love  ! 

I  suppose  I  'm  a  "  fogy/'  —  not  up  to  the  age,  — 

But  I  can't  help  recalling  an  earlier  stage, 

When  a  real  inspiration  (divinus  afflatus] 

Could  be  printed  without  any  saving  hiatus ; 

When  humor  was  decently  shrouded  in  rhyme, 

As  suited  the  primitive  ways  of  the  time, 

And  we  all  would  have  blushed  had  we  dreamed  of  the  rules 

Which  are  taught  us  to-day  in  our  "  dialect "  schools. 

It  may  be  all  right,  though  I  find  it  all  wrong, 
This  queer  prostitution  of  talent  and  song ; 
Perhaps,  in  our  market,  gold  sells  at  a  loss,  — 
And  the  public  will  pay  better  prices  for  dross,  — 
Well  1  't  were  folly  to  row  'gainst  a  tide  that  has  turned, 
And  the  lesson  that 's  set  us  has  got  to  be  learned ; 
But  I  '11  make  one  more  desperate  pull  to  be  free 
Ere  I  swallow  the  brood  of  that  "  Heathen  Chinee." 
•New  York  Evening  Post. 


PART   II. 
Sfimong  t\yt  Eittle  f  olfe. 


So  every  little  child  f  see. 

With  brow  and  spirit  undefiled. 
And  simple  faith  and  frolic  glee. 

Finds  still  in  


me  another  child. 

J.  G.  HOLLAND. 


PART  II. 

3Hmon0  tfje  Eittle  f  olfc. 


BABY-LAND. 

"  How  many  miles  to  Baby-land?" 
"  Any  one  can  tell ; 
Up  one  flight, 
To  the  right; 
Please  to  ring  the  bell." 

w  What  can  you  see  in  Baby-land  ?  " 
"  Little  folks  in  white  — 
Downy  heads, 
Cradle-beds, 
Faces  pure  and  bright !  " 

"  What  do  they  do  in  Baby-land  ?" 
"  Dream  and  wake  and  play, 
Laugh  and  crow, 
Shout  and  grow ; 
Jolly  times  have  they ! " 

«  What  do  they  say  in  Baby-land  ?  " 
"  Why,  the  oddest  things ; 

Might  as  well 

Try  to  tell 
What  a  birdie  sings ! " 

"  Who  is  the  Queen  of  Baby-land  ? 
"  Mother,  kind  and  sweet ; 
And  her  love, 
Born  above, 
Guides  the  little  feet." 


GEORGE  COOPER. 


38  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


NELLY   TELLS   HOW   BABY  CAME. 

THERE  's  no  use  of  your  talking,  for  mamma  told  me  so, 
And  if  there  's  any  one  that  does,  my  mamma  ought  to  know ; 
For  she  has  been  to  Europe  and  seen  the  Pope  at  Rome, 
Though  she  says  that  was  before  I  came  to  live  with  her  at 
home. 

You  see  we  had  no  baby,  —  unless  you  call  me  one, 

And  I  have  grown  so  big,  you  know,  t  would  have  to  be  in  fun,  — 

When  I  went  to  see  grandma,  about  two  weeks  ago, 

And  now  we  've  one,  a  little  one,  that  squirms  and  wiggles  so. 

And  mamma  says  an  angel  came  down  from  heaven  above, 

And  brought  this  baby  to  her  for  her  and  me  to  love ; 

And  it 's  got  the  cunningest  of  feet,  as  little  as  can  be, 

And  shining  eyes  and  curly  hair,  and  hands  you  scarce  can  see. 

And  then  it  never  cries  a  bit,  like  some  bad  babies  do ; 
And  papa  says  it  looks  like  me  —  I  don't  think  so,  do  you? 
For  I  'm  a  girl  and  it 's  a  boy,  and  boys  I  can't  endure  ; 
Unless  they  're  babies  like  our  own,  they  '11  plague  and  tease 
you,  sure. 

But  you  say  the  angel  did  n't  come :  now  you  just  tell  me  why ; 
The  Bible  says  there 's  angels  in  heaven,  and  that 's  up  in  the 

sky; 

And  Christ  loves  little  babies,  and  God  made  everything, 
And  if  the  angels  didn't,  who  did  our  baby  bring  ? 

You  can't  tell :  no,  I  guess  you  can't,  but  mamma  ought  to 

know, 

For  it 's  her  baby  —  hers  and  purs  —  and  mamma  told  me  so ; 
And  they  don't  make  any  cunning  things  like  him  on  earth,  you 

see, 
For  no  wax  doll,  with  real  hair,  is  half  so  nice  as  he. 

I  know  an  angel  brought  him,  and  I  think  one  brought  me  too ; 
Though  I  don't  just  now  remember,  and  so  can't  tell,  can  you  ? 
But  mamma  knows;  and  this  I  know,  — the  baby  was  n't  home 
When  I  went  away,  and  now  he  is.  If  you  want  to  see  him, 
come. 

For  mamma  says  if  I  am  good  I  can  kiss  him  every  day, 

And  we  '11  kiss  him  now,  and  then  go  out  and  have  a  nice  long 

play; 

And  if  anybody  asks  you  how  babies  come  and  go, 
Why,  tell  them  it 's  the  angels,  for  mamma  told  me  so. 

THOMAS  S.  COLLIER* 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  POLK.  39 

WELCOME,   LITTLE  STRANGER. 
(Bv  A  DISPLACED  THREE-YEAR-OLD.) 

MOZZER  bought  a  baby, 

'Ittle  bitsey  sing ; 
Sinks  I  mos'  could  put  him 

Frou  my  yubber  ying. 
Ain't  he  awful  ugly  ? 

Ain't  he  awful  pink  ? 
"  Just  come  down  from  heaven  "  — 

Yat  's  a  fib,  I  sink. 

Doctor  tol'  anozzer 

Great  big  awful  lie ; 
Nose  ain't  out  o'  joint,  zen, 

Yat  ain't  why  I  cry. 
Mamma  stays  up  in  bedroom  — 

Guess  he  makes  her  sick. 
Frow  him  in  the  gutter, 

Beat  him  wiz  a  stick. 

Cuddle  him  and  love  him ! 

Call  him  "  Blessed  sing  "  I 
Don't  care  if  my  kite  ain't 

Got  a  bit  of  string ! 
Send  me  off  with  Bridget 

Every  single  day,  — 
"  Be  a  good  boy,  Charley, 

Run  away  and  play." 

Said  "  I  ought  to  love  him  "  I 

No,  I  won't  I  no  zur ! 
Nassy  cryin'  baby, 

Not  got  any  hair. 
Got  all  my  nice  kisses, 

Got  my  place  in  bed,  — 
Mean  to  take  my  drumsticks 

And  beat  him  on  the  head. 

CHARLES  FOLLEN  ADAMS. 


ONLY  A  BABY. 
(To  A  LITTLE  ONE  JUST  A  WEEK  OLD.) 

ONLY  a  baby 

'Thout  any  hair, 
'Cept  just  a  little 

Fuzz  here  and  there. 


40  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Only  a  baby, 
Name  you  have  none, 

Barefooted  and  dimpled, 
Sweet  little  one. 

Only  a  baby, 
Teeth  none  at  all ; 

What  are  you  good  for, 
Only  to  squall  ? 

Only  a  baby, 
Just  a  week  old ; 

What  are  you  here  for, 
You  little  scold  ? 


BABY'S    REPLY. 

Only  a  baby  I 

Whatsoodlbe? 
Lots  o'  big  folks 

Been  little  like  me. 

Ain't  dot  any  hair  ? 

'Es  I  have,  too ; 
S'pos'n'Ihadn't, 

Dess  it  tood  drow. 


Not  any  teeth  — 

Would  n't  have  one ; 
Don't  dit  my  dinner 

Gnawin'  a  bone. 


What  am  I  here  for  ? 

'At 's  petty  mean  ; 
Who  's  dot  a  better  right 

'T  ever  you  've  seen  ? 

What  am  I  dood  for, 

Did  you  say  ? 
Eber  so  many  sings 

Ebery  day. 

Tourse  I  squall  at  times, 
Sometimes  I  bawl ; 

Zey  dassn't  spant  me, 
Taus  I  'm  so  small. 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  41 

Only  a  baby ! 

'Es,  sir,  'at 's  so ; 
'N*  if  you  only  tood, 

You  M  be  one,  too. 

'At 's  all  I  've  to  say, 

You  're  mos'  too  old ; 
Dess  I  '11  det  into  bed, 

Toes  dettin'  cold. 


THE   LAST  ARRIVAL. 

THERE  came  to  port  last  Sunday  night 

The  queerest  little  craft, 
Without  an  inch  of  rigging  on ; 

I  looked  and  looked  —  and  laughed  I 
It  seemed  so  curious  that  she 

Should  cross  the  unknown  water 
And  moor  herself  within  my  room  — 

My  daughter  1  oh,  my  daughter  1 

Yet  by  these  presents  witness  all 

She  's  welcome  fifty  times, 
And  comes  consigned  in  hope  and  love 

And  common-metre  rhymes. 
She  has  no  manifest  but  this ; 

No  flag  floats  o'er  the  water ; 
She  's  rather  new  for  our  marine  — 

My  daughter  1  oh,  my  daughter  I 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  tame  ones  too ! 

Ring  out  the  lover's  moon  ! 
Ring  in  the  little  worsted  socks ! 

Ring  in  the  bib  and  spoon  ! 
Ring  out  the  muse  !     Ring  in  the  nurse ! 

Ring  in  the  milk  and  water ! 
Away  with  paper,  pen,  and  ink  I 

My  daughter  I  oh,  my  daughter  1 

GEORGE  W.  CABLE. 


THE  "COMING  MAN." 

A  PAIR  of  very  chubby  legs 
Encased  in  scarlet  hose ; 

A  pair  of  little  stubby  boots 
With  rather  doubtful  toesj 


42  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

A  little  kilt,  a  little  coat, 

Cut  as  a  mother  can, 
And  lo  !  before  us  strides  in  state 

The  Future's  "  coming  man." 

His  eyes,  perchance,  will  read  the  stars, 

And  search  their  unknown  ways ; 
Perchance  the  human  heart  and  soul 

Will  open  to  their  gaze ; 
Perchance  their  keen  and  flashing  glance 

Will  be  a  nation's  light, — 
Those  eyes  that  now  are  wistful  bent 

On  some  "  big  fellow's  "  kite. 

That  brow  where  mighty  thought  will  dwell 

In  solemn,  secret  state  ; 
Where  fierce  ambition's  restless  strength 

Shall  war  with  future  fate ; 
Where  science  from  now  hidden  caves 

New  treasures  shall  outpour,  — 
'T  is  knit  now  with  a  troubled  doubt, 

Are  two,  or  three  cents,  more  ? 

Those  lips  that,  in  the  coming  years, 

Will  plead,  or  pray,  or  teach  ; 
Whose  whispered  words,  on  lightning  flash, 

From  world  to  world  may  reach ; 
That,  sternly  grave,  may  speak  command, 

Or,  smiling,  win  control,  — 
Are  coaxing  now  for  gingerbread 

With  all  a  baby's  soul ! 

Those  hands  —  those  little  busy  hands  — 

So  sticky,  small,  and  brown, 
Those  hands,  whose  only  mission  seems 

To  pull  all  order  down,  — 
Who  knows  what  hidden  strength  may  lie 

Within  their  future  grasp, 
Though  now  't  is  but  a  taffy-stick 

In  sturdy  hold  they  clasp  ? 

Ah,  blessings  on  those  little  hands, 

Whose  work  is  yet  undone  ! 
And  blessings  on  those  little  feet, 

Whose  race  is  yet  un-run  ! 
And  blessings  on  the  little  brain 

That  has  not  learned  to  plan  ! 
Whate'er  the  Future  hold  in  store, 

God  bless  the  "  coming  man  "  1 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  43 


THE  BALD-HEADED  TYRANT 

OH  !  the  quietest  home  on  earth  had  I, 
No  thought  of  trouble,  no  hint  of  care ; 

Like  a  dream  of  pleasure  the  days  flew  by, 
And  peace  had  folded  her  pinions  there. 

But  one  day  there  joined  in  our  household  band 

A  bald-headed  tyrant  from  No-man's-land. 

Oh  the  despot  came  in  the  dead  of  night, 
And  no  one  ventured  to  ask  him  why ; 

Like  slaves  we  trembled  before  his  might. 

Our  hearts  stood  still  when  we  heard  him  cry ; 

For  never  a  soul  could  his  power  withstand, 

That  bald-headed  tyrant  from  No-man's-land. 

He  ordered  us  here,  and  he  sent  us  there,  — 
Though  never  a  word  could  his  small  lips  speak,  — 

With  his  toothless  gums  and  his  vacant  stare, 
And  his  helpless  limbs  so  frail  and  weak  ; 

Till  I  cried,  in  a  voice  of  stern  command, 

"  Go  up,  thou  bald-head  from  No-man's-land  1 " 

But  his  abject  slaves  they  turned  on  me ; 

Like  the  bears  in  Scripture  they  'd  rend  me  there, 
The  while  they  worshipped  on  bended  knee 

The  ruthless  wretch  with  the  missing  hair  ; 
For  he  rules  them  all  with  relentless  hand, 
This  bald-headed  tyrant  from  No-man's-land. 

Then  I  searched  for  help  in  every  clime, 
For  peace  had  fled  from  my  dwelling  now, 

Till  I  finally  thought  of  old  Father  Time, 
And  now  before  him  I  made  my  bow : 

"  Wilt  thou  deliver  me  out  of  his  hand, 

This  bald-headed  tyrant  from  No-man's-land  ?  " 

Old  Time  he  looked  with  a  puzzled  stare, 
And  a  smile  came  over  his  features  grim : 

"  I  '11  take  the  tyrant  under  my  care  ; 

Watch  what  my  hour-glass  does  for  him. 

The  veriest  humbug  that  ever  was  planned 

Is  this  same  bald-head  from  No-man's-land  !  " 

Old  Time  is  doing  his  work  full  well : 

Much  less  of  might  does  the  tyrant  wield ; 

But,  ah  !  with  sorrow  my  heart  will  swell 
And  sad  tears  fall  as  I  see  him  yield. 

Could  I  stay  the  touch  of  that  shrivelled  hand, 

I  would  keep  the  bald-head  from  No-man's-land. 


44  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

For  the  loss  of  peace  I  have  ceased  to  care ; 

Like  other  vassals  I  've  learned,  forsooth, 
To  love  the  wretch  who  forgot  his  hair 

And  hurried  along  without  a  tooth ; 
And  he  rules  me  too  with  his  tiny  hand, 
This  bald-headed  tyrant  from  No-man's-land. 

MARY  E.  VANDYNE. 


A  HINT. 

OUR  Daisy  lay  down 

In  her  little  nightgown, 
And  kissed  me  again  and  again, 

On  forehead  and  cheek, 

On  lips  that  would  speak, 
But  found  themselves  shut  to  their  gain. 

Then  foolish,  absurd, 

To  utter  a  word, 
I  asked  her  the  question  so  old, 

That  wife  and  that  lover 

Ask  over  and  over, 
As  if  they  were  surer  when  told. 

There,  close  at  her  side, 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?  "  I  cried ; 
She  lifted  her  golden-crowned  head, 

A  puzzled  surprise 

Shone  in  her  gray  eyes  — 
"  Why,  that 's  why  I  kiss  you  1 "  she  said. 


OUR  DARLING. 

BOUNDING  like  a  football, 

Kicking  at  the  door ; 
Falling  from  the  table-top, 

Sprawling  on  the  floor ; 
Smashing  cups  and  saucers, 

Splitting  dolly's  head ; 
Putting  little  pussy  cat 

Into  baby's  bed ; 
Building  shops  and  houses, 

Spoiling  father's  hat ; 
Hiding  mother's  precious  keys 

Underneath  the  mat ; 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  45 

Jumping  on  the  fender, 

Poking  at  the  fire ; 
Dancing  on  his  little  legs,-— 

Legs  that  never  tire ; 
Making  mother's  heart  leap 

Fifty  times  a  day ; 
Aping  everything  we  do, 

Every  word  we  say ; 
Shouting,  laughing,  tumbling, 

Roaring  with  a  will, 
Anywhere  and  everywhere, 

Never,  never  still ; 
Present  —  bringing  sunshine  ; 

Absent  —  leaving  night ; 
That 's  our  precious  darling, 

That 's  our  heart's  delight 


THE  NEW  BABY. 

I  'SE  a  poor  little  sorrowful  baby, 

For  Bidget  is  way  down  tairs, 
The  titten  has  statched  my  finder, 

And  dolly  won't  say  her  payers. 
Ain't  seen  my  bootiful  mamma 

Since  ever  so  long  adoe, 
And  I  ain't  her  tunningest  baby 

No  longer,  for  Bidget  says  so. 

My  mamma 's  dot  a  new  baby  ; 

Dod  dived  it,  he  did,  yesterday  ; 
And  it  kies,  and  it  kies,  so  defful, 

I  wish  he  would  tate  it  away. 
Don't  want  no  sweet  little  sister, 

I  want  my  dood  mamma,  I  do, 
I  want  her  to  tis  me,  and  tis  me, 

And  tall  me  her  pessus  Lulu. 

Oh,  here  turns  nurse  wis  the  baby  I 

It  sees  me  yite  out  of  its  eyes ; 
I  dess  we  will  keep  it,  and  dive  it 

Some  tandy  whenever  it  kies ; 
I  dess  I  will  dive  it  my  dolly 

To  play  wis  'most  every  day ; 
And  I  dess,  I  dess  —  say,  Bidget, 

Ask  Dod  not  to  tate  it  away. 


46  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


WASHING-DAY. 

WHILE  mother  is  tending  baby 

We  '11  help  her  all  we  can ; 
For  I  'm  her  little  toddlekins, 

And  you  're  her  little  man. 
And  Nell  will  bring  the  basket, 

For  she  's  the  biggest  daughter, 
And  I  '11  keep  rubbing,  rubbing, 

And  you  '11  pour  in  the  water. 
And  now  we  '11  have  to  hurry, 

Because  it 's  getting  late  ; 
Poor  dolly  is  n't  dressed  yet, 

But  dolly  '11  have  to  wait. 
I  '11  pour,  and  you  can  rub  'em, 

Whichever  you  had  rather ; 
But  seems  to  me,  if  I  keep  on, 

We  '11  get  a  quicker  lather. 
Maybe  when  mother  sees  us 

Taking  so  much  troubles, 
She  '11  let  us  put  our  pipes  in 

And  blow  it  full  of  bubbles. 
But  now  we  '11  have  to  hurry, 

Because  it 's  getting  late; 
And  dolly  is  n't  dressed  yet, 

But  dolly  '11  have  to  wait. 
Hearth  and  Home. 


BABY'S   LETTER. 

DEAR  ole  untie,  I  dot  oor  letter : 

My  ole  mammy,  she  ditten  better. 

She  every  day  little  bit  stronger, 

Don't  mean  to  be  sick  berry  much  longer. 

Daddy  's  so  fat,  can't  hardly  stagger  ; 
Mammy  says  he  jinks  too  much  lager. 
Dear  little  baby  had  a  bad  colic, 
Had  to  take  tree  drops  nassy  paleygolic. 

Toot  a  dose  of  tatnip,  felt  worse  as  ever. 
Sha'n't  take  no  more  tatnip,  never  1 
Wind  on  stomit,  felt  pooty  bad, 
Worse  fit  of  sickness  ever  I  had  I 

Ever  had  belly-ate,  ole  untie  Bill  ?  ^ 
'T  ain't  no  fun  now,  say  what  oo  will. 
I  used  to  sleep  all  day  and  cry  all  night ; 
Don't  do  so  now,  'cause  't  ain't  yite. 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  47 

But  I  'm  growin',  gettin'  pooty  fat, 
Gains  'most  two  pounds,  only  tink  o'  datl 
Little  flannen  blankets  was  too  big  before, 
Nurse  can't  pin  me  in  'em  no  more. 

Skirts  so  small,  baby  so  stout, 
Had  to  let  the  plaits  in  'em  all  out. 
Got  a  head  of  hair  jes'  as  black  as  nite; 
And  big  boo  eyes,  yat  ook  mighty  bite. 

My  mammy  says,  never  did  see 
Any  ozzer  baby  half  as  sweet  as  me. 
Grandma  comes  often,  Aunt  Sarah  too ; 
Baby  loves  yem,  baby  loves  oo. 

Baby  sends  a  pooty  kiss  to  his  unties  all, 
Aunties  and  cousins,  —  big  folks  and  small. 
Can't  yite  no  more,  so  dood-by, 
Bully  ole  untie  with  a  glass  eye. 


MY  LOST  BABY. 

COMES  little  Maud  and  stands  by  my  knee, 
Her  soft  eyes  filled  with  a  troubled  joy ; 

And  her  wondering  heart  is  perplexed  to  sec 
Her  babyhood  lost  in  our  baby  boy. 

For  Maud  was  a  babe  but  a  week  ago,  — 

A  gentle,  lovable,  clinging  thing  ; 
Now  we  are  saddened  but  pleased  to  know 

The  queen  is  dethroned  and  there  reigns  a  king,  — 

A  tiny  king,  with  a  cheek  like  down  ; 

With  dark,  indefinite-colored  eyes  ; 
With  hair  of  the  softest  satiny  brown ; 

Who  doubles  his  fists  and  hiccoughs  and  cries ; 

Who  groans,  grimaces,  and  paws  the  air, 

And  twists  his  mouth  in  a  meaningless  smile ; 

Who  fixes  his  eyes  in  a  winkless  stare, 

And  seems  in  the  deepest  thought  the  while ; 

A  wee  small  king  with  a  comical  face, 

Whom  one  moment  we  laugh  at,  the  next  caress ; 
A  little  monarch  who  holds  his  place 

By  the  wondrous  might  of  his  helplessness. 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Come  hither,  my  Maud,  with  your  wistful  eyes  ; 

Come  hither,  I  '11  lay  the  small  tyrant  down  ; 
I  '11  gather  you  up  in  a  glad  surprise, 

And  press  to  my  bosom  your  head  of  brown. 

Nestle  down  close  to  your  mother's  breast, 
Poor  little  babe  of  a  week  gone  by  ; 

Find  for  a  moment  a  haven  of  rest,  — 
Clasping  my  neck  with  a  satisfied  sigh. 

Alas  !  I  have  lost  her,  she  is  no  more 
The  baby  girl  that  I  loved  to  press 

Close  to  my  heart ;  she  's  a  woman  before 
This  animate  atom  of  helplessness. 

My  heart  is  sad  for  my  girl  to-day ; 

In  a  moment  babyhood's  privileged  years 
Have  passed  from  her  life  forever  away,  — 

We  see  them  vanish  through  misty  tears. 

Farewell,  sweet  babe  of  a  week  agone ! 

Thou  hast  reached  the  land  of  the  nevermore, 
And  Maud's  little  feet  are  standing  on 

The  perilous  heights  of  childhood's  shore. 


A  BABY'S  RATTLE. 

i. 

ONLY  a  baby's  rattle, 

And  yet  if  you  offered  me  gold 
More  than  my  heart  could  dream  of, 

Or  jewels  my  hand  could  hold, 

For  that  worthless  toy,  I  should  answer, 

You  cannot  buy  the  tears 
Of  love  and  joy,  the  remembrance 

Of  all  that  it  means  for  all  years. 

The  old  associations 

Of  the  years  that  have  waned  and  fled 
Lie  there  with  the  childish  token 

That  was  clasped  by  a  hand  that  is  dead. 

And  beyond  all  earthly  treasures 
That  prowess  or  brain  could  win, 

I  prize  that  worn  old  plaything 
For  the  memories  shrined  therein. 


AMONG    THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  49 

There  may  be  hope  in  the  future 

With  its  dreams  too  bright  to  last, 
But  they  lack  the  consecration 

That  clings  round  thoughts  of  the  past. 


II. 

She  came  when  the  May-time  scattered 

May-buds  upon  holt  and  lea  : 
And  the  glint  of  the  sunshine  seemed  sweeter. 

And  a  new  song  was  sung  by  the  sea. 

T  was  a  page  from  the  book  of  Creation, 
With  an  imprint  I  knew  was  divine, 

And  I  felt  the  infinite  yearning 
For  the  new  life  sprung  from  mine. 

Ah  me  !  how  we  loved  our  blossom ! 

And  it  scarce  seems  days  ago 
That  she  crowed  and  laughed  in  the  summer, 

And  faded  in  winter  snow. 

It  seems  like  a  vision  remembered 

Of  a  death  in  unrestful  sleep, 
When  fearsome  thoughts  come  upon  you 

As  storms  brood  over  the  deep. 

And  whenever  I  hear  the  laughter 

That  rings  from  a  child  at  play, 
I  think  of  our  dear  dead  snowdrop,  — 

And  it  seems  but  yesterday. 


III. 

The  May-time  had  changed  to  summer, 
And  the  roses  of  autumn  come, 

The  birds  sung  blithe  in  the  branches, 
But  blither  the  birdie  at  home. 

The  cynic  may  sneer  at  the  feeling, 
For  a  cold,  hard  creed  is  rife ; 

But  I  know  that  my  love  for  my  darling 
Was  my  purest  thought  in  life. 

She  grew  with  the  summer's  fruitage, 
But  in  warm  autumnal  days, 

She  faded,  it  seemed  like  the  leaflets 
That  strewed  the  woodland  ways. 

4 


50  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

It  was  hard  to  mark,  and  still  harder 
To  think  that  the  hopes  we  kept 

Must  be  buried  away  with  old  fancies, 
And  dreams  that  in  silence  slept. 

Were  we  never  to  see  her  joyous 
In  childhood's  innocent  play  ? 

Ah,  no !  she  was  called,  and  left  us  — 
And  it  seems  but  yesterday. 


IV. 

At  last  —  how  well  I  remember 

The  long  and  lingering  night, 
When  we  watched  by  the  tiny  cradle 

Till  the  morning's  earliest  light ; 

And  then  when  the  desolate  morning 
Shone  cold  through  the  winter  bars, 

Lo !  God  had  taken  our  snowdrop 
To  blossom  beyond  the  stars. 

It  was  hard  to  bow  in  submission 

When  we  thought  of  the  vacant  place, 

And  there  within  the  cradle 
The  white  little  baby  face. 

Only  one  thought  could  comfort, 

The  echo  of  words  divine, 
That,  tender  as  any  mother, 

By  the  waters  of  Palestine, 

He  spake,  who  bade  the  children 

Draw  near  on  the  sacred  sod, 
When  he  stretched  out  hands  of  blessing,  - 

"Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  God." 


WATCHING   FOR  PAPA. 

SHE  always  stood  upon  the  steps 

Just  by  the  cottage  door, 
Waiting  to  kiss  me  when  I  came 

Each  night  home  from  the  store. 
Her  eyes  were  like  two  glorious  stars, 

Dancing  in  heaven's  own  blue  — 
"  Papa,"  she  'd  call  like  a  wee  bird, 

"  I's  looten  out  for  oo  /  " 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  51 

Alas !  how  sadly  do  our  lives 

Change  as  we  onward  roam  ! 
For  now  no  birdie  voice  calls  out 

To  bid  me  welcome  home. 
No  little  hands  stretched  out  for  me, 

No  blue  eyes  dancing  bright, 
No  baby  face  peeps  from  the  door 

When  I  come  home  at  night. 

And  yet  there  's  comfort  in  the  thought 

That  when  life's  toil  is  o'er, 
And  passing  through  the  sable  flood 

I  gain  the  brighter  shore, 
My  little  angel  at  the  gate, 

With  eyes  divinely  blue, 
Will  call  with  birdie  voice,  "  Papa, 

f's  looten  out  for  oo  I " 


MATTIE'S   WANTS  AND   WISHES. 

I  WANTS  a  piece  of  talito 
To  make  my  doll  a  dress ; 

I  does  n't  want  a  big  piece  — 
A  yard  '11  do,  I  guess. 

I  wish  you  'd  fred  my  needle, 
And  find  my  fimble,  too  — 

I  has  such  heaps  o'  sowin', 
I  don't  know  what  to  do. 

My  Hepsy  tored  her  apron 
A  tum'lin'  down  the  stair  ; 

And  Caesar  's  lost  his  pantaloons, 
And  needs  anozzer  pair. 

I  wants  my  Maud  a  bonnet, 

She  has  n't  none  at  all ; 
And  Fred  must  have  a  jacket, 

His  uzzer  one  's  too  small. 

I  wants  to  go  to  grandma's, 
You  promised  me  I  might ; 

I  know  she  '11  like  to  see  me  — 
I  wants  to  go  to-night. 

She  lets  me  wash  the  dishes, 
And  see  in  grandpa's  watch  — 

Wish  I  'd  free,  four  pennies, 
To  buy  some  butter-scotch. 


52  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

I  wants  some  newer  mittens, 
I  wish  you  'd  knit  me  some, 

'Cause  'most  my  fingers  freezes, 
They  leak  so  in  the  fum. 

I  wored  it  out  last  summer 
A-pullin'  George's  sled ; 

I  wish  you  would  n't  laugh  so  — 
It  hurts  me  in  my  head. 

I  wish  I  had  a  cooky  — 
I  'm  hungry  's  I  can  be ; 


If  you  has  n't  pretty  large  ones, 
You  'd  better  bring  me  free. 


GRAN'MA  AL'US  DOES. 

I  WANTS  to  mend  my  wagon, 

And  has  to  have  some  nails ; 
Just  two,  free  will  be  plenty; 

We  're  goin'  to  haul  our  rails. 
The  splendidest  cob  fences 

We  're  makin'  ever  was  ! 
I  wis'  you  'd  help  us  find  'em  — 

Gran'ma  al'us  does. 

My  horse's  name  is  "  Betsey  ; " 

She  jumped  and  broke  her  head, 
I  put  her  in  the  stable 

And  fed  her  milk  and  bread ; 
The  stable  's  in  the  parlor,  — 

We  didn't  make  no  muss  ; 
I  wis'  you  'd  let  it  stay  there  — 

Gran'ma  al'us  does. 

I 's  goin1  to  the  cornfield 

To  ride  on  Charlie's  plough, 
I  spect  he  'd  like  to  have  me  — 

I  wants  to  go  right  now. 
Oh,  won't  I  "  gee-up  "  awful, 

And  "  whoa  "  like  Charlie  whoas  I 
I  wis'  you  would  n't  bozzer  — 

Gran'ma  never  does. 

I  wants  some  bread  and  butter, 

I 's  hungry  worstest  kind ; 
But  Freddy  must  n't  have  none  — 

'Cause  he  would  n't  mind. 
Put  plenty  of  sugar  on  it ; 

I  '11  tell  you  what  I  knows : 
It 's  right  to  put  on  sugar  — 

Gran'ma  al'us  does. 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  53 


THE   UNFINISHED   PRAYER. 

"  Now  I  lay,"  —  repeat  it,  darling. 

"  Lay  me,"  lisped  the  tiny  lips 
Of  my  daughter,  kneeling,  bending 

O'er  her  folded  finger-tips. 

"  Down  to  sleep  "  —  "  To  sleep,"  she  murmured, 

And  the  curly  head  bent  low ; 
"  I  pray  the  Lord,"  I  gently  added  ; 

You  can  say  it  all,  I  know. 

u  Pray  the  Lord"  — the  sound  came  faintly, 
Fainter  still  — "  My  soul  to  keep ;  * 

Then  the  tired  head  fairly  nodded, 
And  the  child  was  fast  asleep. 

But  the  dewy  eyes  half  opened 

When  I  clasped  her  to  my  breast, 
And  the  dear  voice  softly  whispered, 

"  Mamma,  God  knows  all  the  rest" 

Oh,  the  trusting,  sweet  confiding 
Of  the  child  heart  !     Would  that  I 

Thus  might  trust  my  Heavenly  Father, 
He  who  hears  my  feeblest  cry. 


"NOW  I  LAY  ME   DOWN  TO  SLEEP." 

GOLDEN  head  so  lowly  bending, 
Little  feet  so  white  and  bare, 

Dewy  eyes,  half  shut,  half  opened, 
Lisping  out  her  evening  prayer. 

Well  she  knows  when  she  is  saying, 
"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep," 

'T  is  to  God  that  she  is  praying,  — 
Praying  him  her  soul  to  keep. 

Half  asleep,  and  murmuring  faintly, 
"  If  I  should  die  before  I  wake,"  — 

Tiny  fingers  clasped  so  saintly,  — 
"  I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take." 


54  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Oh  the  rapture,  sweet,  unbroken, 
Of  the  soul  who  wrote  that  prayer ! 

Children's  myriad  voices  floating 
Up  to  heaven  record  it  there. 

If,  of  all  that  has  been  written, 

I  could  choose  what  might  be  mine, 

It  should  be  that  child's  petition, 
Rising  to  the  throne  divine. 


IN  THE  FIRELIGHT. 

THE  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  low, 

And  there  is  stillness  everywhere  ; 

Like  troubled  spirits,  here  and  there 
The  firelight  shadows  fluttering  go. 
And  as  the  shadows  round  me  creep, 

A  childish  treble  breaks  the  gloom, 

And  softly  from  a  further  room 
Comes  :  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep." 

And,  somehow,  with  that  little  prayer 

And  that  sweet  treble  in  my  ears, 

My  thought  goes  back  to  distant  years, 
And  lingers  with  a  dear  one  there ; 
And  as  I  hear  the  child's  amen, 

My  mother's  faith  comes  back  to  me,  — 

Crouched  at  her  side  I  seem  to  be, 
And  mother  holds  my  hands  again. 

Oh  for  an  hour  in  that  dear  place  ! 

Oh  for  the  peace  of  that  dear  time  ! 

Oh  for  that  childish  trust  sublime ! 
Oh,  for  a  glimpse  of  mother's  face  ! 
Yet,  as  the  shadows  round  me  creep, 

I  do  not  seem  to  be  alone,  — 

Sweet  magic  of  that  treble  tone 
And  "  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep  !  " 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


THAT  BOY. 

Is  the  house  turned  topsy-turvy  ? 

Does  it  ring  from  street  to  roof  ? 
Will  the  racket  still  continue, 

Spite  of  all  your  mild  reproof  ? 
Are  you  often  in  a  flutter  ? 

Are  you  sometimes  thrilled  with  joy  ^ 
Then  I  have  my  grave  suspicions 

That  you  have  at  home  —  that  Boy. 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  55 

Are  your  walls  and  tables  hammered  ? 

Are  your  nerves  and  ink  upset  ? 
Have  two  eyes,  so  bright  and  roguish, 

Made  you  every  care  forget  ? 
Have  your  garden  beds  a  prowler 

Who  delights  but  to  destroy  ? 
These  are  well-known  indications 

That  you  have  at  home  —  that  Boy. 

Have  you  seen  him  playing  circus 

With  his  head  upon  the  mat, 
And  his  heels  in  mid-air  twinkling  — 

For  his  audience,  the  cat? 
Do  you  ever  stop  to  listen, 

When  his  merry  pranks  annoy,  — 
Listen  to  a  voice  that  whispers, 

You  were  once  just  like  —  that  Boy  ? 

Have  you  heard  of  broken  windows, 

And  with  nobody  to  blame  ? 
Have  you  seen  a  trousered  urchin 

Quite  unconscious  of  the  same  ? 
Do  you  love  a  teasing  mixture 

Of  perplexity  and  joy  ? 
You  may  have  a  dozen  daughters, 

But  I  know  you  've  got  —  that  Boy. 


THE  CHILDREN'S   BEDTIME. 

THE  clock  strikes  seven  in  the  hall, 

The  curfew  of  the  children's  day, 

That  calls  each  little  pattering  foot 

From  dance  and  song  and  livelong  play; 
Their  day,  that  in  our  wider  light 
Floats  like  a  silver  day-moon  white, 
Nor  in  our  darkness  sinks  to  rest, 
But  sinks  within  a  golden  west. 

Ah,  tender  hour  that  sends  a  drift 

Of  children's  kisses  through  the  house, 
And  cuckoo-notes  of  sweet  "  Good-night," 

And  thoughts  of  home  and  heaven  arouse  ; 
And  a  soft  stir  of  sense  and  heart, 
As  when  the  bee  and  blossom  part; 
And  little  feet  that  patter  slower, 
Like  the  last  droppings  of  the  shower. 


56  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  in  the  children's  rooms  aloft 

What  blossom  shapes  do  gayly  slip 
Their  dainty  sheaths,  and  rosy  run 

From  clasping  hand  and  kissing  lip. 
A  naked  sweetness  to  the  eye  — 
Blossom  and  babe  and  butterfly 
In  witching  one  so  dear  a  sight  I 
An  ecstasy  of  life  and  light. 

And,  ah,  what  lovely  witcheries 

Bestrew  the  floor,  —  an  empty  sock, 
By  vanished  dance  and  song  left  loose 
As  dead  bird's  throat ;  a  tiny  smock 
That,  sure,  upon  some  meadow  grew, 
And  drank  the  heaven-sweet  rains  ;  a  shoe 
Scarce  bigger  than  an  acorn-cup ; 
Frocks  that  seem  flowery  meads  cut  up. 

Then  lily-drest  in  angel-white 

To  mother's  knee  they  trooping  come ; 
The  soft  palms  fold  like  kissing  shells, 

And  they  and  we  go  shining  home,  — 
Their  bright  heads  bowed  and  worshipping 
As  though  some  glory  of  the  spring, 
Some  daffodil  that  mocks  the  day, 
Should  fold  his  golden  palms  and  pray. 

And  gates  of  Paradise  swing  wide 
A  moment's  space  in  soft  accord, 
And  those  dread  angels,  Life  and  Death. 

A  moment  veil  the  flaming  sword, 
As  o'er  the  weary  world  forlorn 
From  Eden's  secret  heart  is  borne 
That  breath  of  Paradise  most  fair, 
Which  mothers  call  the  "  children's  prayer." 

Ah,  deep,  pathetic  mystery ! 

The  world's  great  woe  unconscious  hung, 
A  rain-drop  on  a  blossom's  lip, 

White  innocence  that  woos  our  wrong, 
And  love  divine  that  looks  again, 
Unconscious  of  the  cross  and  pain, 
From  sweet  child-eyes,  and  in  that  child 
Sad  earth  and  heaven  reconciled. 

Then,  kissed,  on  beds  we  lay  them  down, 

As  fragrant-white  as  clover's  sod ; 
And  all  the  upper  floors  grow  hushed 

With  children's  sleep,  and  dews  of  God. 
And  as  our  stars  their  beams  do  hide, 
The  stars  of  twilight,  opening  wide, 
Take  up  the  heavenly  tale  at  even, 
And  light  us  on  to  God  and  heaven. 


AMONG    THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  57 


THE  CHILDREN'S   MUSIC. 

WE  asked  where  the  magic  came  from 

That  made  her  so  wondrous  fair, 
As  she  stood  with  the  sunlight  touching 

Her  gloss  of  golden  hair. 
And  her  blue  eyes  looked  toward  heaven 

As  though  they  could  see  God  there. 
"  Hush  !  "  said  the  child,  "  can't  you  hear  it, 

The  music  that 's  everywhere  ? " 

God  help  us !  we  could  not  hear  it, 

Our  hearts  were  heavy  with  pain  ; 
We  heard  men  toiling  and  wrangling. 

We  heard  the  whole  world  complain ; 
And  the  sound  of  a  mocking  laughter 

We  heard  again  and  again, 
But  we  lost  all  faith  in  the  music, 

We  had  listened  so  long  in  vain. 

"  Can't  you  hear  it  ? "  the  young  child  whispered, 

And  sadly  we  answered,  "  No. 
We  might  have  fancied  we  heard  it 

In  the  days  of  long  ago  ; 
But  the  music  is  all  a  delusion, 

Our  reason  has  told  us  so, 
And  you  will  forget  that  you  heard  it, 

When  you  know  the  sound  of  woe." 

Then  one  spoke  put  from  among  us 

Who  had  nothing  left  to  fear ; 
Who  had  given  his  life  for  others, 

And  been  repaid  with  a  sneer. 
And  his  face  was  lit  with  a  glory, 

And  his  voice  was  calm  and  clear ; 
And  he  said,  "  I  can  hear  the  music 

Which  the  little  children  hear." 

F.  M.  OWEN. 


CREEPING  UP  THE  STAIRS. 

IN  the  soft  falling  twilight 

Of  a  weary,  weary  day, 
With  a  quiet  step  I  entered 

Where  the  children  were  at  play  ; 
I  was  brooding  o'er  some  trouble 

Which  had  met  me  unawares, 
When  a  little  voice  came  ringing : 

"  Me  is  creeping  up  the  stairs." 


58  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Ah,  it  touched  the  tenderest  heart-strings 

With  a  breath  and  force  divine, 
And  such  melodies  awakened, 

As  no  wording  can  define. 
And  I  turned  to  see  our  darling,  — • 

All  forgetful  of  my  cares, 
When  I  saw  the  little  creature 

Slowly  creeping  up  the  stairs. 

Step  by  step  she  slowly  clambered 

On  her  little  hands  and  knees, 
Keeping  up  a  constant  chatter, 

Like  a  magpie  in  the  trees, 
Till  at  last  she  reached  the  topmost, 

When,  o'er  all  her  world's  affairs, 
She,  delighted,  stood  a  victor 

After  creeping  up  the  stairs. 

Fainting  heart,  behold  an  image 

Of  man's  brief  and  struggling  life, 
Whose  best  prizes  must  be  captured 

With  a  noble,  earnest  strife ; 
Onward,  upward,  reaching  ever, 

Bending  to  the  weight  of  cares, 
Hoping,  fearing,  still  expecting, 

We  go  creeping  up  the  stairs. 

On  their  steps  may  be  no  carpet, 

By  their  side  may  be  no  rail, 
Hands  and  knees  may  often  pain  us» 

And  the  heart  may  almost  fail ; 
Still  above  there  is  the  glory 

Which  no  sinfulness  impairs, 
With  its  rest  and  joy  forever, 

After  creeping  up  the  stairs. 
Burlington  Hawkeye.  REV.  W.  S.  McFETRiDGE, 


LITTLE   GOLDENHAIR. 

GOLDENHAIR  climbed  upon  grandpapa's  knee! 
Dear  little  Goldenhair  !  tired  was  she  — 
All  the  day  busy  as  busy  could  be  1 

Up  in  the  morning  as  soon  as  't  was  light  — 
Up  with  the  birds  and  butterflies  bright, 
Skipping  about  till  the  coming  of  night. 

Grandpapa  toyed  with  the  curls  on  her  head ; 
*'  What  has  my  darling  been  doing  ? "  he  said, 
"  Since  she  rose,  with  the  sun,  from  her  bed  ?  " 


AMONG    THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  59 

"  Pitty  much  !  "  answered  the  sweet  little  one  ; 
"  I  cannot  tell  —  so  much  things  I  have  done: 
Played  with  my  dolly  and  feeded  my  bun. 

"  And  then  I  jumped  with  my  little  jump-rope, 
And  I  made  bubbles  out  of  some  water  and  soap  — 
Bootiful  worlds  !  mamma's  castles  of  hope  1 

"  I  afterwards  readed  in  my  picture-book ; 

And  Bella  and  I  we  went  out  to  look 

For  the  smooth  little  fishes  by  the  side  of  the  brook. 

"  And  then  I  came  home  and  eated  my  tea, 
And  climbed  up  on  grandpapa's  knee ; 
And  I  jes  as  tired  as  tired  can  be  I  " 

Lower  and  lower  the  little  head  pressed, 
Until  it  had  dropped  upon  grandpapa's  breast  1 
Dear  little  Goldenhair!  sweet  be  thy  rest ! 

We  are  but  children ;  the  things  that  we  do 
Are  as  sports  of  a  babe  to  the  Infinite  view, 
That  marks  all  our  weakness,  and  pities  it,  too. 

God  grant  that  when  night  overshadows  our  way, 
And  we  shall  be  called  to  account  for  our  day, 
He  shall  find  us  as  guileless  as  Goldenhair  lay  1 

And  oh !  when  aweary,  may  we  be  so  blest 
As  to  sink  like  the  innocent  child  to  our  rest, 
And  to  feel  ourselves  clasped  to  the  Infinite  breast ! 

F.  BURGE  SMITH. 


BEAUTIFUL  GRANDMAMMA. 

GRANDMAMMA  sits  in  her  quaint  arm-chair,  — 
Never  was  lady  more  sweet  and  fair ! 
Her  gray  locks  ripple  like  silver  shells, 
And  her  brow  its  own  calm  story  tells 
Of  a  gentle  life  and  a  peaceful  even, 
A  trust  in  God  and  a  hope  in  heaven  ! 

Little  girl  Mary  sits  rocking  away 
In  her  own  low  seat,  like  some  winsome  fay; 
Two  dolly  babies  her  kisses  share, 
And  another  one  lies  by  the  side  of  her  chair- 
Mary  is  fair  as  the  morning  dew  — 
Cheeks  of  roses  and  ribbons  of  blue  1 


60  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"  Say,  grandmamma,"  says  the  pretty  elf, 

"  Tell  me  a  story  about  yourself. 

When  you  were  little  what  did  you  play  ? 

Was  you  good  or  naughty,  the  whole  long  day  ? 

Was  it  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  years  ago  ? 

And  what  makes  your  soft  hair  as  white  as  snow  ? 

"  Did  you  have  a  mamma  to  hug  and  kiss? 
And  a  dolly  like  this,  and  this,  and  this  ? 
Did  you  have  a  pussy  like  my  little  Kate  ? 
Did  you  go  to  bed  when  the  clock  struck  eight? 
Did  you  have  long  curls  and  beads  like  mine  ? 
And  a  new  silk  apron,  with  ribbons  fine  ?  " 

Grandmamma  smiled  at  the  little  maid, 
And  laying  aside  her  knitting,  she  said: 
"  Go  to  my  desk  and  a  red  box  you  '11  see ; 
Carefully  lift  it  and  bring  it  to  me." 
So  Mary  put  her  dollies  away  and  ran, 
Saying,  "  I  '11  be  as  careful  as  ever  I  can." 

Then  grandmamma  opened  the  box  :  and  lo  1 
A  beautiful  child  with  throat  like  snow, 
Lips  just  tinted  like  pink  shells  rare, 
Eyes  of  hazel  and  golden  hair, 
Hands  all  dimpled,  and  teeth  like  pearls  — 
Fairest  and  sweetest  of  little  girls  1 

"  Oh,  who  is  it  ? "  cried  winsome  May ; 

"  How  I  wish  she  was  here  to-day ! 

Would  n't  I  love  her  like  everything, 

And  give  her  my  new  carnelian  ring ! 

Say,  dear  grandmamma,  who  can  she  be  ? " 

"  Darling,"  said  grandmamma,  "  that  child  was  me  1 " 

May  looked  long  at  the  dimpled  grace, 

And  then  at  the  saint-like,  fair  old  face. 

"  How  funny !  "  she  cried,  with  a  smile  and  a  kiss, 

"  To  have  such  a  dear  little  grandma  as  this  I 

Still,"  she  added,  with  a  smiling  zest, 

"  I  think,  dear  grandma,  I  like  you  best  I " 

So  May  climbed  on  the  silken  knee, 

And  grandma  told  her  her  history — 

What  plays  she  played,  what  toys  she  had, 

How  at  times  she  was  naughty,  or  good,  of  sad. 

"  But  the  best  thing  you  did,"  said  May, "  don't  you  see? 

Was  to  grow  a  beautiful  grandma  for 'me  1 " 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  6 1 


THE   BABY   OVER  THE   WAY. 

ACROSS  in  my  neighbor's  window, 

With  its  drapings  of  satin  and  lace, 
I  see,  'neath  a  crown  of  ringlets, 

A  baby's  innocent  face. 
His  feet  in  their  wee  red  slippers 

Are  tapping  the  polished  glass, 
And  the  crowd  in  the  street  look  upward, 

And  nod  and  smile  as  they  pass. 

Just  here  in  my  cottage  window, 

In  the  rays  of  the  noonday  sun, 
With  a  patch  on  his  faded  apron, 

Stands  my  own  little  one. 
His  face  is  as  pure  and  handsome 

As  the  baby's  over  the  way, 
And  he  keeps  my  heart  from  breaking 

At  my  toiling  every  day. 

Sometimes  when  the  day  is  ended, 

And  I  sit  in  the  dusk  to  rest, 
With  the  face  of  my  sleepy  darling 

Hugged  close  to  my  lonely  breast, 
I  pray  that  my  neighbor's  baby 

May  not  catch  heaven's  roses,  all ; 
But  that  some  may  crown  the  forehead 

Of  my  loved  one  as  they  fall. 

And  when  I  draw  the  stockings 

From  his  little  tired  feet, 
And  kiss  the  rosy  dimples 

In  his  limbs  so  round  and  sweet, 
I  think  of  the  dainty  garments 

Some  little  children  wear, 
And  frown  that  my  God  withholds  them 

From  mine,  so  pure  and  fair. 

May  God  forgive  my  envy, 

I  knew  not  what  I  said  ; 
My  heart  is  crushed  and  humbled : 

My  neighbor's  boy  is  dead. 
I  saw  the  little  coffin 

As  they  carried  it  out  to-day ; 
A  mother's  heart  is  breaking 

In  the  mansion  over  the  way. 

The  light  is  fair  in  my  window, 
The  blossoms  bloom  at  my  door ; 

My  boy  is  chasing  the  sunbeams 
That  dance  on  the  cottage  floor; 


62  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

The  roses  of  health  are  blushing 

On  my  darling's  cheek  to-day  ; 
But  baby  \sgone  from  the  window 

Of  the  house  that 's  over  the  way. 

REV.  WASHINGTON  GLADDEN. 


FRED  ENGLEHARDT'S   BABY. 

DRU  as  I  leev,  most  efry  day 
I  laugh  me  wild  to  saw  der  way 
My  schmall  young  baby  dries  to  play  — 
Dot  funny  leetle  baby. 

When  I  look  of  dem  leetle  toes, 
Und  saw  dot  funny  leetle  nose, 
Und  hear  der  way  dot  rooster  crows  — 
I  schmile  like  I  vas  grazy. 

Sometimes  der  comes  a  leetle  shquall, 
Dots  ven  der  vindy  vind  does  crawl 
Right  in  his  leetle  shtomach  schmall  — 
Dot 's  too  bad  for  der  baby. 

Dot  makes  him  sing  at  night  so  shweet, 
Und  gorryparric  he  must  eat, 
Und  I  must  chump  shpry  on  my  feet 
To  help  dot  leetle  baby. 

He  bulls  my  nose  und  kicks  my  hair, 
Und  crawls  me  ofer  everywhere, 
Und  schlobber  me  —  but  what  I  care  ? 

Dot  vas  my  schmall  young  baby. 

Around  my  head  dot  leetle  arm 

Vas  shquozh  me  all  so  nice  und  warm. 

Oh,  may  dere  never  come  some  harm 

To  dot  schmall  leetle  baby. 

CHARLES  FOLLEN  ADAMS. 


LEEDLE  YAWCOB  STRAUSS. 

I  HAF  a  vunny  leedle  poy 

Vat  gomes  schust  to  my  knee ; 
Der  queerest  schap,  der  greatest  rogue 

As  efer  you  did  see. 
He  runs  und  jumps  und  smashes  dings 

In  all  parts  of  der  house,  — 
But  what  of  dot  ?     He  vas  mine  son, 

Mine  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 


AMONG    THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  63 

He  get  der  measles  und  der  mumbs, 

Und  eferyding  dot 's  out ; 
He  spills  mine  glass  of  lager  beer, 

Puts  schnuff  into  mine  kraut ; 
He  fills  mine  pipe  with  Limburg  cheese  — 

Dot  vas  der  roughest  chouse ; 
I  'd  dake  dot  from  no  oder  poy 

But  leedle  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  dakes  der  milkpan  for  a  drum, 

Und  cuts  mine  cane  in  dwo, 
To  make  der  shticks  to  beat  it  mit  — 

Mine  cracious,  dot  vas  drue  ! 
I  dinks  mine  head  vas  schplit  abart, 

He  kicks  up  such  a  touse,  — 
But  nefer  mind,  der  poys  vas  few 

Like  dot  schmall  Yawcob  Strauss. 

He  asks  me  questions  sooch  as  dese  ; 

Who  baints  mine  nose  so  red  ? 
Who  vas  it  cut  dot  schmoot  blace  oudt 

Vrom  der  hair  upon  my  head  ? 
Und  vere  der  plaze  goes  vrom  der  lamp 

Vene'er  der  glim  I  douse  ?  — 
How  gan  I  all  dese  tings  eggsblain 

To  dot  schmall  Yawcob  Strauss  ? 

I  somedimes  dink  I  schall  go  vild 

Mid  sooch  a  grazy  poy, 
Und  vish  vonce  more  I  gould  haf  rest 

Und  beaseful  dimes  enshoy  ; 
But  ven  he  vas  aschleep  in  bed, 

So  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
I  brays  der  Lord,  "  Dake  anydings, 

But  leaf  dot  Yawcob  Strauss/' 
Indianapolis  Sentinel.  CHARLES  FOLLEN  ADAMS. 


THE  GOODEST   MOTHER. 

EVENING  was  falling,  cold  and  dark, 
And  people  hurried  along  the  way 

As  if  they  were  longing  soon  to  mark 
Their  own  home  candle's  cheering  ray. 

Before  me  toiled  in  the  whirling  wind 
A  woman  with  bundles  great  and  small, 

And  after  her  tugged,  a  step  behind, 
The  Bundle  she  loved  the  best  of  all. 


64  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

A  dear  little  roily-poly  boy 

With  rosy  cheeks,  and  a  jacket  blue, 

Laughing  and  chattering  full  of  joy, 
And  here  's  what  he  said  —  I  tell  you  true : 

"  You  're  the  goodest  mother  that  ever  was." 
A  voice  as  clear  as  a  forest  bird's ; 

And  I  'm  sure  the  glad  young  heart  had  cause 
To  utter  the  sweet  of  the  lovely  words. 

Perhaps  the  woman  had  worked  all  day 

Washing  or  scrubbing ;  perhaps  she  sewed ; 

I  knew,  by  her  weary  footfall's  way, 
That  life  for  her  was  an  uphill  road. 

But  here  was  a  comfort.    Children  dear, 
Think  what  a  comfort  you  might  give 

To  the  very  best  friend  you  can  have  here, 
The  lady  fair  in  whose  house  you  live, 

If  once  in  a  while  you  *d  stop  and  say,  — 
In  task  or  play  for  a  moment  pause, 

And  tell  her  in  sweet  and  winning  way, 

"  You  're  the  GOODEST  mother  that  ever  was." 


THE  COB   HOUSE. 

WILLY  and  Charley,  eight  and  ten, 

Were  under  the  porch  in  the  noonday  heat ; 

I  could  see  and  hear  the  little  men, 
Unseen,  myself,  in  the  window-seat. 

Will  on  a  cob  house  was  hard  at  work, 
With  a  zeal  that  was  funny  enough  to  me. 

At  eight  one  has  hardly  learned  to  shirk ; 
That  comes  later,  —  as  you  will  see. 

For  Charley,  by  virtue  of  riper  age, 
Did  nothing  but  stand  and  criticise  ; 

His  hands  in  his  pockets,  stage  by  stage 
He  watched  the  tottering  castle  rise. 

"  And  now,  after  all  your  fuss,"  says  he, 
"  S'posin'  it  tumbles  down  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  Will  answers  as  cool  as  could  be, 
"  Of  course  I  should  build  it  better  then." 

Charley  shook  sagely  his  curly  head, 
Opened  his  eyes  of  dancing  brown, 

And  then  for  a  final  poser  said, 

"  But  s'posin'  it  always  kept  tumblin'  down  ? ' 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  65 

Will,  however,  was  not  of  the  stuff 

At  a  loss  to  be  taken  so. 
"  Why,  then,'*  he  answered  ready  enough, 
"  I  should  keep  on  building  it  better,  you  know." 

And,  seeing  the  wise  world's  wisest  knot 
Cut  at  a  stroke  with  such  simple  skill, 

Older  people  than  Charley,  I  thought, 
Might  learn  a  lesson  of  Master  Will. 

KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOOD. 


CARD   HOUSES. 

MY  little  niece  and  I  —  I  read 

My  Plato  in  my  easy-chair ; 
And  she  was  building  on  the  floor 

A  pack  of  cards  with  wondrous  care. 

We  worked  in  silence,  but  alas ! 

Among  the  cards  a  mighty  spill, 
And  then  the  little  ape  exclaimed, 

"  Well  I     Such  is  life  !     Look,  Uncle  Will  I " 

I  gave  a  start  and  dropped  my  book,  — 
It  was  the  "  Phaedo  "  I  had  read, — 

A  sympathetic  current  thrilled 
Like  lightning  through  my  heart  and  head. 

I  eyed  with  curious  awe  the  child, 
The  unconscious  Sibyl,  where  she  sat, 

Whose  thoughtless  tongue  could  babble  forth 
Strange  parables  of  life  and  fate. 

Yet  such  is  life !  a  Babel  house, 
A  common  doom  hath  tumbled  all, 

King,  queen,  and  knave,  and  plain  and  trump,  — 
A  motley  crew  in  motley  fall ! 

We  rear  our  hopes,  no  Pharaoh's  tomb, 
Nor  brass,  could  build  so  sure  a  name, 

But,  soon  or  late,  a  sad  collapse, 
And  great  the  ruin  of  the  same. 

Ah,  such  is  life  !     Oh,  sad  and  strange 

That  love  and  wisdom  so  ordain ! 
Some  ere  the  builder's  hands  have  yet 

One  card  against  another  lain ; 
5 


66  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Some  when  the  house  is  tiny  still ; 

Some  when  you  've  built  a  little  more ; 
And  some  when  patience  hath  achieved 

A  second,  third,  or  higher  floor. 

Or  should  you  win  the  topmost  stage, 
Yet  is  the  strength  but  toil  and  pain  — 

And  here  the  tiny  voice  rejoined, 
"  But  I  can  build  it  up  again." 

My  height  of  awe  was  reached.     Can  babes 

Behold  what  reason  scans  in  vain  ? 
Ah,  childhood  is  divine,  I  thought,  — 

Yes,  Lizzie,  build  it  up  again. 
New  York  Graphic. 


BERTIE'S   PHILOSOPHY. 

SMALL  boy  Bertie, 

Drumming  on  the  pane, 
Looking  at  the  chickens 

Draggled  with  the  rain. 

Little  philosopher 

Wrinkles  his  brow, 
Says,  "  I  wonder  — 

I  don't  see  how. 

"  Where  do  chickens  come  from  ? 

Mamma,  please  to  tell. 
Yes,  I  know  they  come  from  eggs, 

Know  that  very  well. 

"  Course  the  old  hen  hatched  'em, 

I  know  that;  but  then  — 
Won't  you  tell  me  truly, 

Where  'd  they  get  the  hen  ? 

'*  S'posin'  you  were  my  boy, 

All  the  one  I  had, 
And  big  folks  would  n't  tell  you  things, 

Should  n't  you  feel  bad  ? 

"  Every  single  thing  you  say 

I  knew  years  ago  ; 
Where  that  first  hen  came  from, 

Is  what  I  want  to  know." 
Providence  Journal.  EVA  M.  TAPPAN. 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  67 


BOYS'   RIGHTS. 

I  WONDER  now  if  any  one 

In  this  broad  land  has  heard 
In  favor  of  downtrodden  boys 

One  solitary  word  ? 
We  hear  enough  of  "  woman's  rights," 

And  "  rights  of  workingmen," 
Of  "  equal  rights,"  and  "  nation's  rights," 

But  pray  just  tell  us  when 
Boys1  Rights  were  ever  spoken  of  ? 

Why,  we  Ve  become  so  used 
To  being  snubbed  by  every  one, 

And  slighted  and  abused, 
That  when  one  is  polite  to  us, 

We  open  wide  our  eyes, 
And  stretch  them  in  astonishment 

To  nearly  twice  their  size  ! 
Boys  seldom  dare  to  ask  their  friends 

To  venture  in  the  house  ; 
It  don't  come  natural  at  all 

To  creep  round  like  a  mouse. 
And  if  we  should  forget  ourselves 

And  make  a  little  noise, 
Then  ma  or  auntie  sure  would  say, 

"  Oh,  my !  those  dreadful  boys  I " 
The  girls  bang  on  the  piano 

In  peace,  but  if  the  boys 
Attempt  a  tune  with  fife  and  drum, 

It 's  "  Stop  that  horrid  noise  !  " 
"That  horrid  noise  !  "  just  think  of  it, 

When  sister  never  fails 
To  make  a  noise  three  times  as  bad 

With  everlasting  "scales." 
Insulted  thus,  we  lose  no  time 

In  beating  a  retreat ; 
So  off  we  go  to  romp  and  tear 

And  scamper  in  the  street. 
No  wonder  that  so  many  boys 

Such  wicked  men  become ; 
'T  were  better  far  to  let  them  have 

Their  plays  and  games  at  home. 
Perhaps  that  text  the  teacher  quotes 

Sometimes,  —  "Train  up  a  child,"  — 
Means  only,  train  the  little  girls, 

And  let  the  boys  run  wild. 
But  patience,  and  the  time  shall  come 

When  we  will  all  be  men, 
And  when  it  does,  I  rather  think 

Wrongs  will  be  righted  then. 

CARRIE  MAY, 


68  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


ROSEBUD'S  FIRST  BALL. 

"  T  is  really  time  you  were  out,  I  think," 
Said  Lady  Rose  to  her  daughter  small ; 

"  So  I  '11  send  my  invitations  round, 
And  give  you,  my  dear,  a  splendid  ball. 

"  We  'd  best  decide  on  your  toilet  first ; 

Your  sister  Jacqueminot  wore  dark  red  ; 
But  you  are  so  much  smaller  than  she, 

I  think  you  must  wear  pale  pink  instead. 

"  Then,  whom  to  invite  :  we  can't  ask  all, 

And  yet  it 's  hardest  of  all  to  tell 
The  flowers  from  weeds.     Indeed,  last  year 

I  snubbed  Field  Daisy,  and  now  she 's  a  belle. 

"  We  '11  ask  the  Pansies,  they  're  always  in 

The  best  society  everywhere  ; 
The  Lilies,  Heliotropes,  and  Pinks, 

Geraniums,  Fuchsias,  must  sure  be  there. 

"  Miss  Mignonette  is  so  very  plain, 

A  favorite,  though,  —  I  '11  put  her  down ; 

The  Violets,  I  think,  are  away ; 

They  're  always  the  first  to  leave  for  town. 

"  The  Larkspurs  are  such  old-fashioned  things 
It 's  not  worth  while  asking  them  to  come ; 

The  Zinnias  are  coarse,  Bergamots  stiff, 
The  Marigolds  better  off  at  home. 

"  Miss  Morning  Glory  I  'd  like  to  ask, 
But  then,  she  never  goes  out  at  night ; 

She  's  such  a  delicate  thing,  she  says, 
She  scarce  can  bear  a  very  strong  light. 

"  The  Verbenas,  I  know,  will  be  put  ont 
If  we  don't  ask  them  ;  the  Petunias,  too. 

They  are  not  quite  aufait,  but  then,  my  dear, 
They  're  such  near  neighbors,  what 's  one  to  do  ? 

"  I  '11  make  out  my  list  at  once,  for  there 

A  butterfly  is  coming  this  way  ; 
I  '11  send  my  invitations  by  him, — 

He  '11  go  the  rounds  without  delay. 

"  Dear  !  dear  !  to  think  that  to-morrow  night 
You  '11  really  be  out.     Now  listen,  my  child : 

Don't  go  much  with  your  cousin  Sweet  Brier  ; 

He  's  very  nice,  but  inclined  to  be  wild." 
New  York  Star. 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  69 


THE  LITTLE  CONQUEROR. 

"  'T  WAS  midnight ;  not  a  sound  was  heard 
Within  the  "  —  "  Papa,  won't  'ou  'ook 

An*  see  my  pooty  'ittle  house  ? 

I  wis'  'ou  would  n't  wead  'ou  book  —  " 

"  Within  the  palace  where  the  king 
Upon  his  couch  in  anguish  lay  —  n 

"  Papa,  pa-pa,  I  wis'  'ou  'd  turn 
An'  have  a  'ittle  tonty  play  —  " 

"  No  gentle  hand  was  there  to  bring 
The  cooling  draught,  or  cool  his  brow ; 

His  courtiers  and  his  pages  gone  —  " 
"  Turn,  papa,  turn  ;  I  want  'ou  now  —  " 

Down  goes  the  book  with  needless  force, 
And  with  expression  far  from  mild ; 

With  sullen  air  and  clouded  brow 
I  seat  myself  beside  my  child. 

Her  little  trusting  eyes  of  blue 

With  mute  surprise  gaze  in  my  face, 

As  if  in  its  expression  stern 
Reproof  and  censure  she  could  trace. 

Anon  her  little  bosom  heaves, 

Her  rosy  lips  begin  to  curl ; 
And  with  a  quivering  chin  she  sobs, 

"  Papa  don't  love  his  'ittle  dirl ! " 

King,  palace,  book,  are  all  forgot ; 

My  arms  are  round  my  darling  thrown,  — 
The  thundercloud  has  burst,  and  lo  I 

Tears  fall  and  mingle  with  her  own. 


"  LULU." 

"  MIDGET,  gypsy,  big-eyed  elf,  little  Kitty  Clover, 
What  have  you  been  playing  at  for  this  hour  and  over  ? 
Where  have  you  been  wandering,  in  the  name  of  wonder  ? 
Were  n't  you  frightened  at  the  wind  ?  Are  you  fond  of  thunder  ? 
Were  you  in  a  fairies'  cave  while  the  rain  was  falling, 
With  your  ears  sewn  tightly  up,  not  to  hear  me  calling  ? 

Who  has  taught  your  hair  to  curl  ? 

Where 's  your  apron,  dirty  girl  ?  " 


70  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"  Now  my  brains  is  all  mussed  up,  got  too  big  a  headful ; 

Fifteen  questions  at  a  time  mixes  me  up  dreadful. 

Course  1  been  a  visiting,  me  and  Rainy  Weather,  — 

Sure  to  find  the  birds  at  home  when  we  go  together ; 

Guess  my  ears  was  full  of  songs  so  I  did  n't  hear  you, 

Else  because  you  stayed  at  home  I  got  too  far  from  near  you. 

Once  some  little  thing  said  low, 

*  Mamma  wants  you,  Lu,  I  know.' 

"  'Spect  it  was  that  funny  bird  that  kept  and  kept  a  singing, 
While  the  rain  was  coming  down  and  thunder-bells  was  ringing. 
'  Oh,  you  goosie-bird/  I  said,  *  rains  like  sixty-seven, 
And  your  song  '11  get  so  wet  it  can't  fly  up  to  heaven ; 
Did  you  swallow  it  one  day  when  you  was  a  drinking  ? 
Is  it  all  the  talk  you  've  got,  or  only  just  your  thinking  ? 

Or  do  songs  come  up  and  sprout, 

And  rain  makes  'em  blossom  out  ? ' 

"  Then  the  bird  came  close  to  me,  —  mamma,  he  did,  truly,— 
Said,  '  I  never  told  before,  but  I  '11  tell  you,  Luly : 
One  day  God  got  tired  of  heaven  and  the  angels'  singing, 
Thought  their  harps  were  out  of  tune,  made  such  awful  dinging ; 
So  he  sang  a  piece  of  song,  put  some  feathers  round  it, 
Then  he  threw  it  in  a  tree,  where  some  bird's  name  found  it ; 

And  he  mixed  the  song  and  name 

Till  they  grew  the  very  same.' 

"  Mamma,  what  you  smiling  at  ?    Had  n't  you  better  hold  me  ? 
I  '11  be  tired  a  saying  through  what  the  birdie  told  me  : 
God  sends  word  down  by  the  rain  when  he  wants  to  hear  him,  — 
That  is  why  the  whisper-drops  tinkle  by  so  near  him. 
Should  you  think  his  song  would  lose  ?    I  can  tell  you  better ! 
It  don't  have  so  far  to  go  as  my  grandma's  letter ; 

Earth  and  heaven  's  so  close  apart, 

God  can  catch  it  in  his  heart. 

"  'T  was  the  wind  that  curled  my  hair, — didn't  he  fix  it  funny  ? 
Combed  and  twisted  it  like  this  'thout  a  spec'  of  money ; 
Where  's  my  apron  ?     Let  me  see  !     I  must  think  it  over  — 
'Fraid  you  Jve  got  a  naughty  girl  for  your  Kitty  Clover, 
'Cause  I  gave  that  to  the  brook  with  the  big  stones  in  it, 
Where  it  has  to  run  across  every  little  minute  ; 

Covered  'em  all  dry  and  neat, 

So  my  brook  won't  wet  its  feet !  " 

CARRIE  W.  THOMPSON. 


BABY  IN  CHURCH. 

AUNT  NELLIE  had  fashioned  a  dainty  thing 
Of  hamburg  and  ribbon  and  lace, 

And  mamma  had  said,  as  she  settled  it  round 
Our  Baby's  beautiful  face, 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK. 

Where  the  dimples  play  and  the  laughter  lies 
Like  sunbeams  hid  in  her  violet  eyes,  — 
"  If  the  day  is  pleasant,  and  Baby  is  good, 
She  may  go  to  church  and  wear  her  new  hood." 

Then  Ben,  aged  six,  began  to  tell, 

In  elder-brotherly  way, 
How  very,  very  good  she  must  be 

If  she  went  to  church  next  day. 
He  told  of  the  church,  the  choir,  and  the  crowd, 
And  the  man  up  in  front  who  talked  so  loud ; 
But  she  must  not  talk,  nor  laugh,  nor  sing, 
But  just  sit  as  quiet  as  anything. 


And  so,  on  a  beautiful  Sabbath  in  May, 
When  the  fruit-buds  burst  into  flowers 
(There  was  n't  a  blossom  on  bush  or  tree 

So  fair  as  this  blossom  of  ours), 
All  in  her  white  dress,  dainty  and  new, 
Our  Baby  sat  in  the  family  pew. 
The  grand,  sweet  music,  the  reverent  air, 
The  solemn  hush,  and  the  voice  of  prayer, 


Filled  all  her  baby  soul  with  awe, 

As  she  sat  in  her  little  place, 
And  the  holy  look  that  the  angels  wear 

Seemed  pictured  upon  her  face. 
And  the  sweet  words  uttered  so  long  ago 
Came  into  my  mind  with  a  rhythmic  flow,  — 
0  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  said  He, 
And  I  knew  He  spake  of  such  as  she. 

The  sweet-voiced  organ  pealed  forth  again, 

The  collection-box  came  around. 
And  Baby  dropped  her  penny  in, 

And  smiled  at  the  chinking  sound. 
Alone  in  the  choir  Aunt  Nellie  stood, 
Waiting  the  close  of  the  soft  prelude, 
To  begin  her  solo.     High  and  strong 
She  struck  the  first  note  ;  clear  and  long 

She  held  it,  and  all  were  charmed,  but  one 

Who,  with  all  the  might  she  had, 
Sprang  to  her  little  feet  and  cried, 

"  Aunt  Nellie,  you 's  being  bad  !  " 
The  audience  smiled,  the  minister  coughed, 
The  little  boys  in  the  corner  laughed, 
The  tenor  shook  like  an  aspen-leaf, 
And  hid  his  face  in  his  handkerchief. 


72  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  poor  Aunt  Nellie  could  never  tell 
How  she  finished  that  terrible  strain, 
But  says  nothing  on  earth  could  tempt 

Her  to  go  through  the  scene  again. 
So  we  have  decided,  perhaps  't  is  best, 
For  her  sake,  and  ours,  and  all  the  rest, 
That  we  wait,  may  be  a  year  or  two, 
Ere  our  Baby  re-enter  the  family  pew. 


WHO'LL  TEND   BABY? 

"  WHO  'LL  take  care  of  the  baby  ?  " 
Says  Joe  to  Sam,  in  fierce  debate 

Upon  the  woman  question  ; 
a  You  Ve  answered  well  all  other  points, 

Now  here 's  my  last  suggestion  : 
When  woman  goes  to  cast  her  vote,  — 

Some  miles  away,  it  may  be,  — 
Who,  then,  I  ask,  will  stay  at  home 

To  rock  and  tend  the  baby  ? " 

Quoth  Sam :  "  I  own  you  Ve  made  my  case 

Appear  a  little  breezy  ; 
I  hoped  you  'd  pass  this  question  by, 

And  give  me  something  easy. 
But  since  the  matter  seems  to  turn 

On  this  one  as  its  axis, 
Just  get  the  one  who  rocked  it  when 

She  went  to  pay  her  taxes  I  " 

E.    E, 


HER  NAME. 

IN  search  from  "  A  "  to  "  Z  "  they  passed, 
And  "  Marguerita  "  chose  at  last; 
But  thought  it  sounded  far  more  sweet 
To  call  the  baby  "  Marguerite." 
When  grandma  saw  the  little  pet, 
She  called  her  "  darling  Margaret." 
Next  Uncle  Jack  and  Cousin  Aggie 
Sent  cup  and  spoon  to  "  little  Maggie." 
And  grandpapa  the  right  must  beg 
To  call  the  lassie  "  bonnie  Meg ;  " 
(From  "  Marguerita  "  down  to  "  Meg  ") 
And  now  she  's  simply  "  little  Peg." 


AMONG   THE  LITTLE  FOLK.  73 

WHY? 

WHAT  did  the  baby  come  for  ? 

That  was  the  question  trite 
The  neighbors  asked  of  each  other 

That  stormy  winter  night. 
What  was  the  need  of  children  ? 

'T  was  hard  enough  before 
To  keep  care  out  of  the  window,  — 

The  gray  wolf  from  the  door. 

Out  of  the  wintry  barren, 

Over  the  sleeping  town, 
Out  of  the  cold,  dark  heaven 

Drifted  the  snow-flakes  down. 
Within  the  low,  old  cottage 

Flickered  the  candle's  flame 
In  the  dusk  of  the  early  dawning, 

But  never  an  answer  came. 

What  did  the  baby  come  for  ? 

A  woman's  heart  could  tell : 
At  touch  of  the  tiny  fingers, 

Like  to  a  fairy  spell, 
A  heart  that  was  hard  with  doubting, 

A  soul  that  was  barred  with  sin, 
Opened  a  tide  from  God's  ocean, 

The  mother-love  swept  in. 

What  did  the  baby  come  for  ? 

A  strong  man's  heart  had  grown, 
Through  poverty's  constant  grinding, 

As  hard  as  the  nether  stone. 
Only  a  baby's  prattle, 

And  yet,  O  wonderful  song 
That  made  a  man's  heart  grow  lighter, 

Made  a  man's  hands  grow  strong  1 

Was  ever  a  spring  or  summer 

That  vanished  on  wings  so  fleet  ? 
Ah !  't  was  a  joy  to  labor, 

When  living  had  grown  so  sweet ! 
Care  never  came  near  the  window, 

And  poverty,  gaunt  and  grim, 
Never  stepped  over  the  threshold,  — 

There  was  no  place  for  him. 

MAUD  MOORE. 


74  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"ONLY  A  BIT  OF  CHILDHOOD  THROWN 
AWAY." 

WHAT  did  the  baby  go  for  ? 

Softly  the  summer  night 
Fell  like  a  benediction 

On  the  baby,  shrouded  white. 
Only  two  golden  summers  1 

'T  was  not  a  life,  we  say, 
"  Only  a  bit  of  childhood 

The  great  God  threw  away." 

Out  on  the  dusky  meadow, 

Over  the  slumbering  town, 
Out  of  the  silent  heaven 

Brightly  the  stars  looked  down. 
What  did  the  baby  go  for  ? 

Flickered  the  dawning's  flame 
Into  the  cottage  window, 

But  never  an  answer  came. 

What  did  the  baby  go  for  ? 

Oh,  thou  shadow  of  death  I 
Oh,  thou  angel !  thou  demon 

Icy  of  touch  and  breath  ! 
We  cry  to  the  sunlit  heavens, 

And  no  voice  answereth. 

Will  there  ever  come  a  morning 

When,  with  our  tears  all  dried, 
Resting  in  fair  green  pastures 

The  river  of  life  beside, 
We  shall  know,  beyond  all  doubting, 

Just  why  the  baby  died  ? 

Oh,  thank  God  for  the  children  ! 

Ay,  give  thanks,  —  though  we  lay 
Under  the  "  sod  of  the  valley  " 

The  fairest  of  all  away. 
Thank  Him  for  those  that  leave  us, 

Thank  Him  for  those  that  stay. 

MAUD  MOORE. 


PART    III 
for 


Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres^ 
Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so  ; 
And  let  your  silver  chime 
Move  in  melodious  time, 

And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow  ; 
And  with  your  ninefold  harmony, 
Make  up  full  consort  to  angelic  symphony. 

MILTON. 


PART    III. 


for 


MERRY  CHRISTMAS. 

IN  the  rush  of  the  merry  morning, 

When  the  red  burns  through  the  gray, 
And  the  wintry  world  lies  waiting 

For  the  glory  of  the  day  ; 
Then  we  hear  a  fitful  rushing 

Just  without  upon  the  stair, 
See  two  white  phantoms  coming, 

Catch  the  gleam  of  sunny  hair. 

Are  they  Christmas  fairies  stealing 

Rows  of  little  socks  to  fill  ? 
Are  they  angels  floating  hither 

With  their  message  of  good-will  ? 
What  sweet  spell  are  these  elves  weaving, 

As  like  larks  they  chirp  and  sing  ? 
Are  these  palms  of  peace  from  heaven 

That  these  lovely  spirits  bring  ? 

Rosy  feet  upon  the  threshold, 

Eager  faces  peeping  through, 
WTith  the  first  red  ray  of  sunshine, 

Chanting  cherubs  come  in  view; 
Mistletoe  and  gleaming  holly, 

Symbols  of  a  blessed  day, 
In  their  chubby  hands  they  carry, 

Streaming  all  along  the  way. 

Well  we  know  them,  never  weary 

Of  this  innocent  surprise  ; 
Waiting,  watching,  listening  always 

With  full  hearts  and  tender  eyes, 
While  our  little  household  angels, 

White  and  golden  in  the  sun, 
Greet  us  with  the  sweet  old  welcome,  — 

"  Merry  Christmas,  every  one  !  " 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


FAIRY   FACES. 

OUT  of  the  mists  of  childhood, 

Steeped  in  a  golden  glory, 
Come  dreamy  forms  and  faces, 

Snatches  of  song  and  story ; 
Whispers  of  sweet,  still  faces ; 

Rays  of  ethereal  glimmer, 
That  gleam  like  sunny  heavens, 

Ne'er  to  grow  colder  or  dimmer : 
Now  far  in  the  distance,  now  shining  near, 
Lighting  the  snows  of  the  shivering  year. 

Faces  there  are  that  tremble, 

Bleared  with  a  silent  weeping, 
Weird  in  a  shadowy  sorrow, 

As  if  endless  vigil  keeping. 
Faces  of  dazzling  brightness, 

With  childlike  radiance  lighted, 
Flashing  with  many  a  beauty, 

Nor  care  nor  time  had  blighted. 
But  o'er  them  all  there 's  a  glamour  thrown, 
Bright  with  the  dreamy  distance  alone. 

Aglow  in  the  Christmas  halo, 

Shining  with  heavenly  lustre, 
These  are  the  fairy  faces 

That  round  the  hearthstone  cluster. 
These  the  deep,  tender  records, 

Sacred  in  all  their  meetness, 
That,  wakening  purest  fancies, 

Soften  us  with  their  sweetness  ; 
As,  gathered  where  nickering  fagots  burn, 
We  welcome  the  holy  season's  return. 


A  CHRISTMAS   <ONG. 

THE  oak  is  a  strong  and  stalwart  tree, 

And  it  lifts  its  branches  up, 
And  catches  the  dew  right  gallantly 

In  many  a  dainty  cup ; 
And  the  world  is  brighter  and  better  made 

Because  of  the  woodman's  stroke, 
Descending  in  sun,  or  falling  in  shade, 

On  the  sturdy  form  of  the  oak. 
But  stronger,  I  ween,  in  apparel  green, 

And  trappings  so  fair  to  see, 
With  its  precious  freight  for  small  and  great, 

Is  the  beautiful  Christmas  Tree. 


FOR  CHRISTMAS   TIDE.  79 

The  elm  is  a  kind  and  goodly  tree, 

With  its  branches  bending  low ; 
The  heart  is  glad  when  its  form  we  see, 

And  we  list  to  the  river's  flow. 
,    Ay,  the  heart  is  glad  and  the  pulses  bound, 

And  joy  illumines  the  face, 
Whenever  a  goodly  elm  is  found, 

Because  of  its  beauty  and  grace. 
But  kinder,  I  ween,  more  goodly  in  mien, 

With  branches  more  drooping  and  free, 
The  tint  of  whose  leaves  fidelity  weaves, 

Is  the  beautiful  Christmas  Tree. 

The  maple  is  supple  and  lithe  and  strong, 

And  claimeth  our  love  anew, 
When  the  days  are  listless  and  quiet  and  long, 

And  the  world  is  fair  to  view  ; 
And  later,  —  as  beauties  and  graces  unfold,  — 

A  monarch  right  regally  drest, 
With  streamers  aflame,  and  pennons  of  gold, 

It  seemeth  of  all  the  best. 
More  lissome,  I  ween,  the  brightness  and  sheen, 

And  the  coloring  sunny  and  free, 
And  the  banners  soft,  that  are  held  aloft 

By  the  beautiful  Christmas  Tree. 
St.  Nicholas.  MRS.  HATTIE  S.  RUSSELL. 


A  CHRISTMAS   CAMP  ON   THE  SAN   GABR'EL. 

LAMAR  and  his  Rangers  camped  at  dawn  on  the  banks  of  the 

San  Gabr'el, 

Under  the  mossy  live-oaks,  in  the  heart  of  a  lonely  dell ; 
With  the  cloudless  Texas  sky  above,  and  the  musquite  grass 

below, 
And  all  the  prairie  lying  still,  in  a  misty,  silvery  glow. 

The  sound  of  the  horses  cropping  grass,  the  fall  of  a  nut,  full 

ripe, 

The  stir  of  a  weary  soldier,  or  the  tap  of  a  smoked-out  pipe, 
Fell  only  as  sounds  in  a  dream  may  fall  upon  a  drowsy  ear, 
Till  the  Captain  said,  "  'T  is  Christmas  Day !  so,  boys,  we  '11 

spend  it  here ; 

"  For  the  sake  of  our  homes  and  our  childhood,  we  '11  give  the 
day  its  dues." 

Then  some  leaped  up  to  prepare  the  feast,  and  some  sat  still 
to  muse, 

And  some  pulled  scarlet  yupon-berries  and  wax-white  mistle- 
toe, 

To  garland  the  stand-up  rifles,  —  for  Christmas  has  no  foe. 


8o  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  every  heart  had  a  pleasant  thought,  or  a  tender  memory, 
Of  unforgotten  Christmas  Tides  that  nevermore  might  be ; 
They  felt  the  thrill  of  a  mother's  kiss,  they  heard  the  happy 

psalm, 
And  the  men  grew  still,  and  all  the  camp  was  full  of  a  gracious 

calm. 

"  Halt !  "  cried  the  sentinel ;  and  lo !  from  out  of  the  brush- 
wood near 

There  came,  with  weary,  fainting  step,  a  man  in  mortal  fear,  — 
A  brutal  man,  with  a  tiger's  heart,  and  yet  he  made  this  plea : 
"  I  am  dying  of  hunger  and  thirst,  so  do  what  you  will  with  me." 

They  knew  him  well :  who  did  not  know  the  cruel  San  Sabatan,  — 

The  robber  of  the  Rio  Grande,  who  spared  not  any  man  ? 

In  low,  fierce  tones  they  spoke  his  name,  and  looked  at  a  coil 

of  rope  ; 
And  the  man  crouched  down  in  abject  fear  —  how  could  he  dare 

to  hope  ? 

The  Captain  had  just  been  thinking  of  the  book  his  mother  read, 
Of  a  Saviour  born  on  Christmas  Day,  who  bowed  on  the  cross 

his  head; 
Blending  the  thought  of  his  mother's  tears   with  the   holy 

mother's  grief,  — 
And  when  he  saw  San  Sabatan,  he  thought  of  the  dying  thief. 

He  spoke  to  the  men  in  whispers,  and  they  heeded  the  words 

he  said, 
And  brought  to  the  perishing  robber,  water  and  meat  and 

bread. 

He  ate  and  drank  like  a  famished  wolf,  and  then  lay  down  to  rest, 
And  the  camp,  perchance,  had  a  stiller  feast  for  its  strange 

Christmas  guest. 

But,  or  ever  the  morning  dawned  again,  the  Captain  touched 
his  hand : 

"  Here  is  a  horse,  and  some  meat  and  bread ;  fly  to  the  Rio 
Grande ! 

Fly  for  your  life!  We  follow  hard;  touch  nothing  on  your 
way  — 

Your  life  was  only  spared  because  't  was  Jesus  Christ's  birth- 
day." 

He  watched  him  ride  as  the  falcon  flies,  then  turned  to  the 

breaking  day ; 

The  men  awoke,  the  Christmas  berries  were  quietly  cast  away ; 
And,  full  of  thought,  they  saddled  again,  and  rode  off  into  the 

west  — 
May  God  be  merciful  to  them,  as  they  were  merciful  to  their 

guest  I 

AMELIA  BARR 


FOR  CHRISTMAS  TIDE.  81 


CHRISTMAS  TREASURES. 

I  COUNT  my  treasures  o'er  with  care : 

The  little  toy  that  baby  knew, 

A  little  sock  of  faded  hue, 
A  little  lock  of  golden  hair. 

Long  years  ago  this  Christmas  time 

My  little  one,  my  all  to  me, 

Sat  robed  in  white  upon  my  knee, 
And  heard  the  merry  Christmas  chime. 

"  Tell  me,  my  little  golden-head, 

If  Santa  Claus  should  come  to-night, 
What  shall  he  bring  my  baby  bright, 

What  treasure  for  my  boy  ?  "  I  said. 

And  then  he  named  the  little  toy, 

While  in  his  honest,  mournful  eyes 
There  came  a  look  of  sweet  surprise, 

That  spoke  his  quiet,  trustful  joy. 

And  as  he  lisped  his  evening  prayer, 

He  asked  the  boon  with  childish  grace, 
Then,  toddling  to  the  chimney-place, 

He  hung  his  little  stocking  there. 

That  night,  as  lengthening  shadows  crept, 
I  saw  the  white-winged  angels  come 
With  heavenly  music  to  our  home, 

And  kiss  my  darling  as  he  slept. 

They  must  have  heard  his  baby  prayer, 
For  in  the  morn,  with  smiling  face, 
He  toddled  to  the  chimney-place, 

And  found  the  little  treasure  there. 

They  came  again  one  Christmas  Tide, 
That  angel  host  so  fair  and  white, 
And,  singing  all  the  Christmas  night, 

They  lured  my  darling  from  my  side. 

A  little  sock,  a  little  toy, 

A  little  lock  of  golden  hair, 

The  Christmas  music  on  the  air, 
A  watching  for  my  baby  boy. 

But  if  again  that  angel  train 

And  golden  head  come  back  to  me 
To  bear  me  to  eternity, 
My  watching  will  not  be  in  vain. 

EUGENE  FIELD. 
6 


82  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


CHRISTMAS  OUTCASTS. 

CHRIST  died  for  all ;  and  on  the  hearts  of  all 
Who  gladly  decorate  their  cheerful  homes 
At  Christmas  Tide,  this  blessed  truth  should  fall, 
That  they  may  mix  some  honey  with  the  gall 
Of  those  to  whom  a  Christmas  never  comes. 

The  poor  are  everywhere  in  Nature's  course, 

Yet  they  may  still  control  some  sweetened  crumbs, 

No  matter  what  they  lack  in  hearts  or  purse ; 

But  there  are  those  whose  better  fate  is  worse, 
To  whom  no  day  of  Christmas  ever  comes. 

The  man  who  wildly  throws  away  his  chance, 

An  outcast  from  all  cheerful  hearts  and  homes, 
Who  may  not  mingle  where  the  happy  dance, 
Nor  gain  from  loving  eyes  one  kindly  glance, 
Is  he  to  whom  no  Christmas  ever  comes. 

The  man  condemned  in  hidden  ways  to  grope, 
At  sight  of  whom  each  kindly  voice  is  dumb, 
Or  he  whose  life  is  shortened  in  its  scope, 
Who  waits  for  nothing  but  the  hangman's  rope, 
Is  he  to  whom  a  Christmas  cannot  come. 

Christ  died  for  all ;  he  came  to  find  the  lost, 
Whether  they  bide  in  palaces  or  slums,  — 

No  matter  how  their  lines  of  life  are  crossed. 

And  they  who  love  him  best  will  serve  him  most 
By  helping  those  to  whom  no  Christinas  comes. 
York  Sun. 


CHRISTMAS  BELLS. 

THERE  are  sounds  in  the  sky  when  the  year  grows  old, 

And  the  winds  of  the  winter  blow  — 
When  night  and  the  moon  are  clear  and  cold, 

And  the  stars  shine  on  the  snow, 
Or  wild  is  the  blast  and  the  bitter  sleet 

That  beats  on  the  window-pane ; 
But  blest  on  the  frosty  hills  are  the  feet 

Of  the  Christmas  time  again  I 

Chiming  sweet  when  the  night  wind  swells, 
Blest  is  the  sound  of  the  Christmas  Bells  1 


FOR  CHRISTMAS   TIDE.  83 

Dear  are  the  sounds  of  the  Christmas  chimes 

In  the  land  of  the  ivied  towers, 
And  they  welcome  the  dearest  of  festival  times 

In  this  Western  world  of  ours  ! 
Bright  on  the  holly  and  mistletoe  bough 

The  English  firelight  falls, 
And  bright  are  the  wreathed  evergreens  now 

That  gladden  our  own  home  walls  ! 

And  hark  !  the  first  sweet  note  that  tells, 
The  welcome  of  the  Christmas  Bells  1 

The  owl  that  sits  in  the  ivy's  shade, 

Remote  from  the  ruined  tower, 
Shall  start  from  his  drowsy  watch  afraid 

When  the  clock  shall  strike  the  hour ; 
And  over  the  fields  in  their  frosty  rhyme 

The  cheery  sounds  shall  go, 
And  chime  shall  answer  unto  chime 

Across  the  moonlit  snow  ! 

How  sweet  the  lingering  music  dwells,— 
The  music  of  the  Christmas  Bells. 

It  fell  not  thus  in  the  East  afar 

Where  the  Babe  in  the  manger  lay : 
The  wise  men  followed  their  guiding  star 

To  the  dawn  of  a  milder  day  ; 
And  the  fig  and  the  sycamore  gathered  green, 

And  the  palm-tree  of  Deborah  rose  ; 
'T  was  the  strange  first  Christmas  the  world  had  seen  — • 

And  it  came  not  in  storm  and  snows. 

Not  yet  on  Nazareth's  hills  and  dells 
Had  floated  the  sound  of  Christmas  Bells. 

The  cedars  of  Lebanon  shook  in  the  blast 

Of  their  own  cold  mountain  air  ; 
But  nought  o'er  the  wintry  plain  had  passed 

To  tell  that  the  Lord  was  there ! 
The  oak  and  the  olive  and  almond  were  still, 

In  the  night  now  worn  and  thin  ; 
No  wind  of  the  winter-time  roared  from  the  hill 

To  waken  the  guests  at  the  inn ; 

No  dream  to  them  the  music  tells 

That  is  to  come  from  the  Christmas  Bells  I 

The  years  that  have  fled  like  the  leaves  on  the  gale 

Since  the  morn  of  the  Miracle-Birth, 
Have  widened  the  fame  of  the  marvellous  tale 

Till  the  tidings  have  filled  the  earth ! 
And  so  in  the  climes  of  the  icy  North, 

And  the  lands  of  the  cane  and  the  palm, 
By  the  Alpine  cotter's  blazing  hearth, 

And  in  tropic  belts  of  calm, 

Men  list  to-night  the  welcome  swells, 
Sweet  and  clear,  of  Christmas  Bells  I 


84  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

They  are  ringing  tonight  through  the  Norway  firs, 

And  across  the  Swedish  fells, 
And  the  Cuban  palm-tree  dreamily  stirs 

To  the  sound  of  those  Christmas  Bells  ! 
They  ring  where  the  Indian  Ganges  rolls 

Its  flood  through  the  rice-fields  wide ; 
They  swell  the  far  hymns  of  the  Lapps  and  Poles 

To  the  praise  of  the  Crucified. 

Sweeter  than  tones  of  the  ocean's  shells 
Mingle  the  chimes  of  the  Christmas  Bells  ! 

The  years  come  not  back  that  have  circled  away 

With  the  past  of  the  Eastern  land, 
When  He  plucked  the  corn  on  the  Sabbath  day 

And  healed  the  withered  hand ; 
But  the  bells  shall  join  in  a  joyous  chime 

For  the  One  who  walked  the  sea, 
And  ring  again  for  the  better  time 

Of  the  Christ  that  is  to  be  ! 

Then  ring  I  —  for  earth's  best  promise  dwells 
In  ye,  O  joyous  Prophet  Bells  ! 

Ring  out  at  the  meeting  of  night  and  morn 

For  the  dawn  of  a  happier  day  ! 
Lo,  the  stone  from  our  faith's  great  sepulchre  torn 

The  angels  have  rolled  away  1 
And  they  come  to,  us  here  in  our  low  abode, 

With  words  like  the  sunrise  gleam,  — 
Come  down  and  ascend  by  that  heavenly  road 

That  Jacob  saw  in  his  dream. 

Spirit  of  love,  that  in  music  dwells, 

Open  our  hearts  with  the  Christmas  Bells  ! 

Help  us  to  see  that  the  glad  heart  prays 

As  well  as  the  bended  knees ; 
That  there  are  in  our  own  as  in  ancient  days 

The  Scribes  and  the  Pharisees ; 
That  the  Mount  of  Transfiguration  still 

Looks  down  on  these  Christian  lands, 
And  the  glorified  ones  from  that  holy  hill 

Are  reaching  their  helping  hands. 

These  be  the  words  our  music  tells 
Of  solemn  joy,  O  Christmas  Bells  I 


CHRISTMAS    SHADOWS. 

THE  needles  have  dropped  from  her  nerveless  hands, 
As  she  watches  the  dying  embers  glow ; 

For  out  from  the  broad  old  chimney-place 
Come  ghostly  shadows  of  "  long  ago/'  — 


VUK  CHRISTMAS    1IDK.  85 

Shadows  that  carry  her  back  again 

To  the  time  of  her  childhood's  artless  joy ; 

Shadows  that  show  her  a  tiny  row 

Of  stockings  awaiting  the  Christmas  toy ; 

Shadows  that  show  her  the  faces  loved 

Of  many  a  half-forgotten  friend, 
And  the  Christmas  Eve,  it  is  passing  by, 

While  Past  and  Present  in  shadows  blend. 
Alone  in  the  dear  old  homestead  now, 

With  only  the  shadows  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne," 
The  clock  is  ticking  the  moments  on, 

While  the  tears  in  her  aged  eyes  still  shine. 

If  only  out  from  the  silent  world, 

The  world  of  shadows  which  mocks  her  so, 
One  might  return  to  his  vacant  chair, 

To  sit  with  her  in  the  firelight's  glow ! 
If  only —     Was  that  a  white,  white  hand 

That  seemed  to  beckon  her  out  of  the  gloom  ? 
Or  was  it  the  embers'  last  bright  flash 

That  startled  the  shadows  round  the  room  ? 

The  Christmas  Eve,  it  has  passed  at  length ; 

A  glorious  day  from  the  night  is  born ; 
The  shadows  are  gone  from  earth  away, 

And  the  bells  are  ringing  for  Christmas  morn. 
But,  ah  !  by  the  broad  old  chimney-place 

The  angel  of  death  keeps  watch  alone, 
For  straight  to  the  Christ-child's  beckoning  arms 

A  longing  spirit  hath  gladly  flown. 


UPON   THE  THRESHOLD. 

ONCE  more  we  stand  with  half-reluctant  feet 

Upon  the  threshold  of  another  year  ; 
That  line  where  Past  and  Present  seem  to  meet 

In  stronger  contrast  than  they  do  elsewhere. 

Look  back  a  moment.    Does  the  prospect  please, 
Or  does  the  weary  heart  but  sigh  regret  ? 

Can  Recollection  smile,  or,  ill  at  ease 
With  what  is  past,  wish  only  to  forget  ? 

Say,  canst  thou  smile  when  Memory's  lingering  gaze 
Once  more  recalls  the  dying  year  to  sight  ? 

Wouldst  thou  live  o'er  again  those  changing  days, 
Or  bid  them  fade  forever  into  night  ? 


86  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

A  solemn  question,  and  the  faltering  heart 

Scarce  dare  say  "  Yes,"  yet  will  not  quite  say  "  No ; M 

For  joy  and  sadness  both  have  played  their  part 
In  making  up  the  tale  of  "  long  ago." 

Here  Memory  sees  the  golden  sunlight  gleam 
Across  the  path  of  life  and  shine  awhile  ; 

And  now  the  picture  changes  like  a  dream, 
And  sorrow  dims  the  eyes  and  kills  the  smile. 

So  —  it  has  gone  —  where  all  has  gone  before ; 

The  moaning  wind  has  sung  the  dead  year's  dirge, 
Time's  waves  roll  on  against  the  crumbling  shore, 

And  sinks  the  worn-out  bark  beneath  the  surge. 

Here  ends  the  checkered  page  of  prose  and  verse, 
Of  shapely  words  and  lines  writ  all  awry, 

There  they  must  stand  for  better  or  for  worse ; 

So  shut  the  book  and  bid  the  year  good-by  I 
Chambers'*  Journal.  G.  E. 


A   NEW   YEAR. 

OVER  the  threshold  a  gallant  new-comer 

Steppeth  with  tread  that  is  royal  to  see ; 
White  as  the  winter-time,  rosy  as  summer, 

Hope  in  his  eyes,  and  his  laugh  ringeth  free. 
Lo !  in  his  hands  there  are  gifts  overflowing, 

Promises,  prophecies,  come  in  his  train ; 
O'er  him  the  dawn  in  its  beauty  is  glowing, 

Flee  from  his  presence  the  shadows  of  pain. 

How  shall  we  welcome  him  ?    Shall  we  remember 

One  who  as  royally  came  to  our  door 
Twelve  months  ago  when  the  winds  of  December 

Moaned  in  the  tree-tops  and  raved  on  the  shore  ? 
He,  too,  had  largess  of  bounty  to  offer ; 

He  was  as  smiling,  as  gracious  of  mien  ; 
Only  the  beautiful  sought  he  to  proffer, 

Only  such  looks  as  were  calm  and  serene. 

Now  he  has  fled ;  and  our  hopes  that  have  perished, 

Lovely  ideals  which  never  were  found, 
Dreams  that  we  followed  and  plans  that  we  cherished, 

Lie,  like  the  autumn  leaves,  dead  on  the  ground. 
So  wilt  thou  cheat  us  with  sign  and  with  token,  — 

So  wilt  thou  woo  us  to  follow  thee  on, 
Till  thy  last  sigh,  through  a  lute  that  is  broken, 

Till  thy  last  vision  is  faded  and  gone. 


FOR  CHRISTMAS   TIDE.  87 

Nay !  we  are  thankless  indeed  if  we  borrow 

Only  the  weary  libretto  of  pain ; 
Find  in  the  retrospect  nothing  but  sorrow, 

Count  up  our  year  in  the  tones  that  complain. 
Surely  we  're  stronger  through  faith  and  endeavor ; 

Surely  are  richer  in  courage  and  love ; 
Surely  are  nearer  the  Infinite  ever,  — 

Nearer  the  dear  ones  who  wait  us  above. 

Welcome,  then,  New  Year,  with  stainless  white  pages, 

Though  we  may  blot  them  ere  long  with  our  tears ; 
So  it  has  been  through  the  long  passing  ages, 

Worn  with  the  footprints  of  close  crowding  years. 
Welcome,  sweet  year  !  may  the  full-handed  hours 

Find  us  like  servants  who  wait  for  their  Lord  j 
Using  with  earnest  devotion  our  powers, 

Looking  for  him,  and  obeying  his  word. 


TURNING  OVER  THE  NEW  LEAF. 

THE  year  begins.    I  turn  the  leaf, 

All  over  writ  with  good  resolves ; 
Each  to  fulfil  will  be  in  chief 

My  aim  while  earth  its  round  revolves. 
How  many  a  leaf  I  Ve  turned  before, 

And  tried  to  make  the  record  true; 
Each  year  a  wreck  on  Time's  dull  shore 

Proved  much  I  dared,  but  little  knew. 

Ah,  bright  resolve !     How  high  you  bear 

The  future's  hopeful  standard  on ; 
How  brave  you  start ;  how  poor  you  wear ; 

How  soon  are  hope  and  courage  gone  I 
You  point  to  deeds  of  sacrifice, 

You  shun  the  path  of  careless  ease; 
Lentils  and  wooden  shoes  ?     Is  this 

The  fare  a  human  soul  to  please  ? 


What  wonder,  then,  if  men  do  fall 

Where  good  is  ever  all  austere ; 
While  vice  is  fair  and  pleasant  all, 

And  turns  the  leaf  to  lead  the  year  ? 
Yet  still  once  more  I  turn  the  leaf, 

And  mean  to  walk  the  better  way ; 
I  struggle  with  old  unbelief, 

And  strive  to  reach  the  perfect  day. 


88  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Why  should  the  road  that  leads  to  heaven 

Be  all  one  reach  of  sterile  sand  ? 
Why  not,  just  here  and  there,  be  given 

A  rose  to  deck  the  dreary  land  ? 
But  why  repine  ?    Others  have  trod, 

With  sorer  feet  and  heavier  sins, 
Their  painful  pathway  toward  their  God  — 

My  pilgrimage  anew  begins. 

Failure  and  failure,  hitherto, 

Has  time  inscribed  upon  my  leaves  ; 
I  Ve  wandered  many  a  harvest  through 

And  never  yet  have  gathered  sheaves ; 
Yet  once  again  the  leaf  I  turn, 

Hope  against  hope  for  one  success ; 
One  merit-mark  at  least  to  earn, 

One  sunbeam  in  the  wilderness. 


PART    IV. 
tf)c 


Here  haply  too<  at  vernal  dawn, 

Some  musing  bard  may  stray, 
And  eye  the  smoking  dewy  lawn, 

And  misty  mountain  gray  ; 
Or  by  the  reaper's  nightly  beam, 

Mild-checkering  through  the  trees, 
Rave  to  my  darkly  dashing  stream, 

Hoarse  swelling  on  the  breeze. 

Let  lofty  firs,  and  ashes  cool, 

My  lowly  banks  overspread, 
And  view,  deep  bending  in  the  pool, 

Their  shadows^  watery  bed! 
Let  fragrant  birks  in  woodbine  drest 

My  craggy  cliffs  adorn  ; 
And,  for  the  little  songster's  nest, 

The  close-embowering  thorn. 

BURNS 


PART  IV. 


ROBIN'S  COME. 

FROM  the  elm-tree's  topmost  bough, 
Hark  !   the  robin's  early  song  1 

Telling  one  and  all  that  now 
Merry  springtime  hastes  along  ; 

Welcome  tidings  dost  thou  bring, 

Little  harbinger  of  spring  : 

Robin  's  come. 

Of  the  winter  we  are  weary, 
Weary  of  the  frost  and  snow  ; 

Longing  for  the  sunshine  cheery, 
And  the  brooklet's  gurgling  flow  ; 

Gladly  then  we  hear  thee  sing 

The  joyful  reveille  of  spring  : 

Robin  's  come. 

Ring  it  out  o'er  hill  and  plain, 

Through  the  garden's  lonely  bowers, 

Till  the  green  leaves  dance  again, 
Till  the  air  is  sweet  with  flowers  ! 

Wake  the  cowslips  by  the  rill, 

Wake  the  yellow  daffodil  : 

Robin  's  come. 

Then,  as  thou  wert  wont  of  yore, 
Build  thy  nest  and  rear  thy  young 

Close  beside  our  cottage  door, 
In  the  woodbine  leaves  among  ; 

Hurt  or  harm  thou  need'st  not  fear, 

Nothing  rude  shall  venture  near  : 
Robin  's  come. 


92  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Singing  still  in  yonder  lane, 

Robin  answers  merrily ; 
Ravished  by  the  sweet  refrain, 

Alice  clasps  her  hands  in  glee, 
Calling  from  the  open  door, 
With  her  soft  voice  o'er  and  o'er, 
Robin 's  come. 
WILLIAM  W.  CALDWELX, 


NESTLINGS. 

O  LITTLE  bird  !  sing  sweet  among  the  leaves, 

Safe  hid  from  sight,  beside  thy  downy  nest ; 

The  rain  falls,  murmuring  to  the  drooping  eaves 

A  low  refrain,  that  suits  thy  music  best. 

Sing  sweet,  O  bird  !  thy  recompense  draws  nigh,  — 

Four  callow  nestlings  'neath  the  mother's  wing. 

So  many  flashing  wings  that  by  and  by 

Will  cleave  the  sunny  air.     Oh,  sing,  bird,  sing ! 

(Sing,  O  my  heart!    Thy  callow  nestlings  sleep, 
Safe  hidden  'neath  a  gracious  folding  wing, 
Until  the  time  when  from  their  slumbers  deep 
They  wake,  and  soar  in  beauty.     Sing,  heart,  sing !) 

O  little  bird,  sing  sweet !    Though  rain  may  fall, 
And  though  thy  callow  brood  thy  care  require, 
Behind  the  rain-cloud,  with  its  trailing  pall, 
Shineth,  undimmed,  the  gracious,  golden  fire. 
Sing  on,  O  bird !  nor  of  the  cloud  take  heed ; 
For  thou  art  heritor  of  glorious  spring ; 
And  every  field  is  sacred  to  thy  need  — 
The  wealth,  the  beauty  thine.     Oh,  sing,  bird,  sing ! 

(Sing,  O  my  heart !  sing  on,  though  rain  may  pour; 

Sing  on,  for  unawares  the  winds  will  bring 

A  drift  of  sunshine  to  thy  cottage  door, 

And  arch  the  clouds  with  rainbows.     Sing,  heart,  sing  7 

O  bird  !  sing  sweet     What  though  the  time  be  near 
When  thou  shalt  sit  upon  the  swaying  bough, 
With  no  sweet  mate,  no  nestling  by,  to  hear 
The  bubbling  song  thou  sing'st  to  glad  them  now ! 
Thy  task  was  done,  fulfilled  in  sweet  spring  days  — • 
In  golden  summer,  when  thy  brood  take  wing, 
Shalt  thou  not  still  have  left  a  hymn  of  praise 
Because  thy  work  is  over?     Sing,  bird,  sing  1 


UNDER    THE  OPEN  SKY.  93 

(Sing,  O  my  heart !     What  if  thy  birds  have  flown  ? 

Thou  hadst  the  joy  of  their  awakening, 

A  thousand  memories  left  thee  for  thine  own ; 

Sing  thou  for  task  accomplished.     Sing,  heart,  singl) 

F.  C.  A. 


THE  CHIMNEY  NEST. 

A  DAINTY,  delicate  swallow-feather 

Is  all  that  we  now  in  the  chimney  trace 

Of  something  that  days  and  days  together 
With  twittering  bird-notes  filled  the  place. 

Where  are  you  flying  now,  swallow,  swallow  ? 

Where  are  you  waking  the  spaces  blue  ? 
How  many  little  ones  follow,  follow, 

Whose  wings  to  strength  in  the  chimney  grew  ? 

Deep  and  narrow,  and  dark  and  lonely, 

The  sooty  place  that  you  nested  in  ; 
Over  you  one  blue  glimmer  only,  — 

Say,  were  there  many  to  make  the  din  ? 

This  is  certain,  that  somewhere  or  other 

Up  in  the  chimney  is  loosely  hung 
A  queer-shaped  nest,  where  a  patient  mother 

Brooded  a  brood  of  tender  young. 

That  here,  as  in  many  deserted  places, 
Brimming  with  life  for  hours  and  hours, 

We  miss  with  the  hum  a  thousand  graces, 
Valued  the  more  since  no  more  ours. 

Ah !  why  do  we  shut  our  eyes  half  blindly, 
And  close  our  hearts  to  some  wee  things  near, 

Till  he  who  granted  them  kindly,  kindly 
Gathers  them  back,  that  we  see  and  hear, 

And  know,  by  loss  of  the  same  grown  dearer, 
Nought  is  so  small  of  his  works  and  ways, 

But,  holding  it  tenderly  when  't  was  nearer, 
Has  added  a  joy  to  our  vanished  days  ? 

So,  little,  delicate  swallow-feather, 

Fashioned  with  care  by  the  Master's  hand, 

I  '11  hold  you  close  for  your  message,  whether 
Or  not  the  whole  I  may  understand. 

MARY  B.  DODGE. 


94  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


THE  CAPTIVE  HUMMING-BIRD. 

FLEET-FLYING  gem,  of  burnished  crest 

And  silver-tipped  wing, 
With  azure,  gold,  and  sapphire  breast ; 

^Eolian  captive  thing ! 

Tell  me  the  secret  of  thy  song, 

And  whence  thy  robe  of  beams, 
If  to  the  earth  thou  dost  belong, 

Or  Paradise  of  dreams. 

Born  for  one  season  of  a  ray, 

To  banquet  'mid  the  bowers, 
Or  wilt  thou  chant  another  May, 

Sweet  minstrel  of  the  flowers  ? 

The  coyest  honeysuckles  still 

Their  daintiest  buds  unfold, 
For  thee  to  kiss,  with  honeyed  bill, 

Their  nectar  lips  of  gold. 

The  lily  opes  its  snowy  cells, 

The  pink,  its  crimson  door. 
"  Sip ! "  whispers  every  fond  bluebell, 

"  My  honey  to  the  core." 

While  blushing  flowers  for  thee  all  fling 

Their  fragrance  on  the  air, 
The  purple  morning-glories  cling 

On  high  in  beauty  bare. 

The  tiny  chalice  of  the  thyme, 

And  daisies,  plead  below, 
Each  dewy-eyed,  too  small  to  climb, 

"  Come,  kiss  me  ere  you  go." 

Away  on  thy  melodious  wing 

To  Love's  mysterious  bowers, 
Still  thy  free  band  of  minstrels  bring 

To  revel  'mid  the  flowers. 

Breathe  on  their  bosoms  fair  and  sweet, 

And  rosy  lips  apart, 
And  give  and  take,  in  Love's  retreat, 

The  honey  of  the  heart. 

JOEL  T.  HART 


UNDER    THE  OPEN  SKY.  95 


THE  YELLOW-HAMMER'S   NEST. 

THE  yellow-hammer  came  to  build  his  nest 
High  in  the  elm-tree's  ever-nodding  crest ; 
All  the  day  long,  upon  his  task  intent, 
Backward  and  forward  busily  he  went ; 

Gathering  from  far  and  near  the  tiny  shreds 
That  birdies  weave  for  little  birdies'  beds,  — 
Now  bits  of  grass,  now  bits  of  vagrant  string, 
And  now  some  queerer,  dearer  sort  of  thing. 

Far  on  the  lawn,  where  he  was  wont  to  come 
In  search  of  stuff  to  build  his  pretty  home, 
We  dropped  one  day  a  lock  of  golden  hair, 
Which  our  wee  darling  easily  could  spare. 

And  close  beside  it  tenderly  we  placed 
A  lock  that  had  the  stooping  shoulders  graced 
Of  her  old  grandsire  ;  it  was  white  as  snow, 
Or  cherry-trees  when  they  are  all  ablow. 

Then  throve  the  yellow-hammer's  work  apace ; 
Hundreds  of  times  he  sought  the  lucky  place 
Where,  sure,  he  thought,  in  his  bird  fashion  dim, 
Wondrous  provision  had  been  made  for  him. 

Both  locks,  the  white  and  golden,  disappeared  ; 
The  nest  was  finished  and  the  brood  was  reared  ; 
And  then  there  came  a  pleasant  summer  day 
When  the  last  yellow-hammer  flew  away. 

Ere  long,  in  triumph,  from  its  leafy  height 
We  bore  the  nest  so  wonderfully  dight, 
And  saw  how  prettily  the  white  and  gold 
Made  warp  and  woof  of  many  a  gleaming  fold. 

But  when  again  the  yellow-hammers  came, 
Cleaving  the  orchard  with  their  pallid  flame, 
Grandsire's  white  locks  and  baby's  golden  head 
Were  lying  low,  both  in  one  mossy  bed. 

And  so  more  dear  than  ever  is  the  nest 
Taken  from  the  elm-tree's  ever-nodding  crest. 
Little  the  yellow-hammer  thought  how  rare 
A  thing  he  wrought  of  white  and  golden  hair. 

JOHN  W.  CHADWICK. 


96  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


THE  BIRD   ON  THE  TELEGRAPH  WIRE. 

THE  long  lines  stretched  from  west  to  east, 
The  bird  was  a  dot  'gainst  the  wide  blue  sky, 

And  I,  full  of  summer  gladness  and  joy, 
Wrote  of  the  bird  as  he  swung  on  high. 

So  free  from  all  care  and  sorrow  and  toil ! 

So  fearless  'mid  music  of  countless  spheres  I 
So  true  to  its  instincts,  though  under  its  feet 

Passed  "  the  news  of  the  world  "  and  the  labor  of  years ! 

He  trilled  a  song  to  his  patient  mate ; 

Not  a  note  was  made  less  loud  and  sweet 
By  a  thought  of  the  wounded  and  dying  men, 

Though  the  news  of  the  battle  passed  under  his  feet. 

He  sang  of  his  birdies  —  one,  two,  three, 
Of  his  nest  in  the  apple-tree  over  the  way, 

While  the  wires  were  bearing  the  death  of  a  prince,  — 
How  a  kingdom's  throne  was  empty  that  day. 

A  lovely  sight,  with  his  breast  of  gold, 

His  glossy  wings  and  beaded  eyes  ; 
One  of  life's  beautiful  things,  I  thought, 

O'erlying  its  deeper  mysteries. 

Little  cared  he  for  battles  or  thrones, 

While  the  air  was  so  soft  and  the  sun  so  bright ; 

His  nestful  and  mate  were  enough  for  him, 
And  he  taught  me  a  lesson,  —  to  trust  in  God's  might. 

On  the  earth  which  sages  and  martyrs  have  trod 

He  teaches  us  how  to  build  our  nest; 
Through  trials,  temptations,  and  mysteries  strange, 

He  teaches  us,  trusting,  to  say,  "  It  is  best." 


PANSIES. 

I  SEND  thee  pansies  while  the  year  is  young, 

Yellow  as  sunshine,  purple  as  the  night ; 
Flowers  of  remembrance,  ever  fondly  sung 

By  all  the  chief est  of  the  Sons  of  Light ; 
And  if  in  recollection  lives  regret 

For  wasted  days  and  dreams  that  were  not  true, 
I  tell  thee  that  the  "  pansy  freaked  with  jet  " 

Is  still  the  heart's-ease  that  the  poets  knew. 
Take  all  the  sweetness  of  a  gift  unsought, 
And  for  the  pansies  send  me  back  a  thought. 

SARAH  DOUDNEY. 


UNDER   THE  OPEN  SKY.  97 


THE   WATER-LILY. 

"  O  STAR  on  the  breast  of  the  river  ! 

0  marvel  of  bloom  and  grace  ! 
Did  you  fall  right  down  from  heaven, 

Out  of  the  sweetest  place  ? 
You  are  white  as  the  thoughts  of  an  angel, 

Your  heart  is  steeped  in  the  sun  : 
Did  you  grow  in  the  Golden  City, 

My  pure  and  radiant  one  ?  " 

"  Nay,  nay,  I  fell  not  out  of  heaven ; 

None  gave  me  my  saintly  white : 
It  slowly  grew  from  the  darkness, 

Down  in  the  dreary  night. 
From  the  ooze  of  the  silent  river 

1  won  my  glory  and  grace. 
White  souls  fall  not,  O  my  poet, 

They  rise  —  to  the  sweetest  place." 

MARY  FRANCES  BUTTS. 


THE  ROSE-BUSH. 

THERE  was  a  rose-bush  in  a  garden  growing, 

Its  tender  leaves  unfolding  day  by  day ; 
The  sun  looked  on,  and  his  down-going 

Left  it  amid  the  starlit  dusk  of  nights  of  May. 

The  dew-drop  came  and  kissed  it  in  the  gloaming ; 

It  gathered  sweetness  in  the  morning  hours  ; 
The  bee  beheld  it  as  he  went  a  roaming, 

And  thought,  "  What  honey  will  be  hidden  in  its  flowers ! " 

The  light  grew  richer  and  the  days  grew  long ; 

The  May-time  deepened  into  June  ; 
The  air  was  laden  with  the  robin's  song, 

The  light  wind  touched  the  leaves  and  set  them  all  atune. 

And  now  a  tiny  bud  appeared,  and  then  another  — 

Bright  promises  of  radiant  flowers  ; 
The  breezes,  whispering,  told  it  to  each  other, 

The  rose-bush  heard  them  in  the  gladsome  hours. 

New  hope  awoke  and  thrilled  in  all  its  veins ; 

Life  is  so  sweet  that  culminates  in  flowers ! 
It  smiled  and  grew  in  misty  summer  rains, 

And  caught  the  freshness  of  the  evening  showers. 
7 


98  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  oft  the  gardener  came  and  stood  beside ; 

He  tended  it  alway  with  zealous  care, 
Watching  lest  any  evil  should  betide, 

Or  blight  creep  o'er  the  leaves  that  grew  so  fair. 

He  crushed  the  buds  and  dropped  them  on  the  ground ; 

The  rose-bush  felt  a  chill  in  every  vein  ; 
It  drooped,  as  if  to  hide  each  bitter  wound  — 

This  strange  experience  was  its  earliest  thought  of  pain. 

"  Poor  little  plant/'  the  gardener  thought, 

"  Thou  art  too  young,  too  young  to  know 
That  few  buds  unto  flowers  are  brought,  — 

It  is  by  pruning  thou  must  grow." 

And  still  the  summer  smiled  and  shone, 

And  other  roses  bloomed  and  died. 
"  Mine  would  more  beauteously  have  blown," 

The  little  rose-bush  sadly  sighed. 

Again  the  gardener  sought  his  flowers, 

Where  he  had  watched  his  treasures  blow : 

The  autumn  blast  had  swept  the  bowers, 
The  winds  and  storms  had  laid  them  low  ! 

Though  sad  of  heart,  the  rose-bush  still  was  green ; 

It  lifted  up  its  drooping  head ; 
"  The  life  that  would  have  filled  the  buds  may  still  be  seen, 

'T  is  folded  in  its  heart,"  he  said. 

He  stooped  and  took  it  from  the  ground 

All  trembling  with  its  vague  alarms, 
And  quick  and  tenderly  he  wrapped  it  round, 

And  kindly  bore  it  in  his  arms. 

And  now,  where  soft  the  sunshine  flows, 

Within  a  fair,  immortal  bower, 
In  all  its  fragrant  beauty  blooms  the  rose, 

Its  every  bud  grown  into  perfect  flower. 


THE   PHANTOM  OF  THE   ROSE. 

SWEET  lady,  let  your  lids  unclose,  — 

Those  lids  by  maiden  dreams  caressed ; 
I  am  the  phantom  of  the  rose 

You  wore  last  night  upon  your  breast. 
Like  pearls  upon  my  petals  lay 

The  weeping  fountain's  silver  tears, 
Ere  in  the  glittering  array 

You  bore  me  proudly  'mid  your  peers. 


UNDER   THE  OPEN  SKY.  99 

O  lady,  't  was  for  you  I  died  — 

Yet  have  I  come  and  will  I  stay ; 
My  rosy  phantom  by  your  side 

Will  linger  till  the  break  of  day. 
Yet  fear  not,  lady ;  nought  claim  I  — 

Nor  mass,  nor  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer  j 
My  soul  is  but  a  perfumed  sigh, 

Which  pure  from  Paradise  I  bear. 

My  death  is  as  my  life  was  —  sweet ; 

Who  would  not  die  as  I  have  done? 
A  fate  like  mine  who  would  not  meet, 

Your  bosom  fair  to  lie  upon  ? 
A  poet  on  my  sentient  tomb 

Engraved  this  legend  with  a  kiss : 
"  Here  lies  a  rose  of  fairest  bloom ; 

E'en  kings  are  jealous  of  its  bliss." 

JEROME  A.  HART. 
(From  Theophile  Gautier.) 

NOTE.  —  A  scholar  who  criticises  the  second  half  of  Mr.  Hart's  second 
verse  as  diverging  unnecessarily  from  the  spirit  of  Gautier,  suggests  this 
much  less  poetical  quatrain  in  its  place  :  — 

Yet  fear  not,  neither  mass  nor  prayer 

Nor  holy  funeral  hymn  I  claim,  — 
My  soul  is  but  a  perfume  rare, 

And  pure  from  Paradise  it  came* 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  THE  ROSE. 

ONLY  a  rose  in  a  glass, 

Set  by  a  sick  man's  bed  ; 
The  day  was  weary,  the  day  was  long, 
But  the  rose  it  spoke  with  a  voice-like  song, 

And  this  is  what  it  said  :  — 

"  I  know  that  the  wind  is  keen, 

And  the  drifted  snows  lie  deep ; 
I  know  that  the  cruel  ice  lies  spread 
O'er  the  laughing  brook  and  the  lake's  blue  bed, 

And  the  fountain's  rush  and  leap. 

"  I  know,  I  know  all  this ; 

Yet  here  I  sit  —  a  rose  ! 
Smiling  I  sit  and  I  feel  no  fear, 
For  God  is  good  and  the  spring  is  near, 

Couched  in  the  shrouding  snows. 


100  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"  Canst  thou  not  smile  with  me  ? 

Art  thou  less  strong  than  I  ? 
Less  strong  at  heart  than  a  feeble  flower 
Which  lives  and  blossoms  but  one  brief  hour, 

And  then  must  droop  and  die  ? 

"  Surely,  thou  canst  endure 

Thy  little  pains  and  fears, 
Before  whose  eyes,  all  fair  and  bright, 
In  endless  vistas  of  delight, 

Stretch  the  eternal  years!" 

Then  o'er  the  sick  man's  heart 

Fell  a  deep  and  hushed  repose ; 
He  turned  on  his  pillow  and  whispered  low, 
That  only  the  listening  flower  might  know : 
"  I  thank  thee,  Rose,  dear  Rose." 


BEAN-BLOSSOMS. 

WHERE  grass  grows  short  and  the  meadows  end, 
And  hedged  fields  slowly  the  hill  ascend, 
To  the  gentle  breezes  bending  low, 
Lazily  bending,  the  bean-flowers  blow. 

In  winter  the  steaming  horses  toil 
With  the  bright  plough  deep  in  the  loamy  soil ; 
In  spring  the  sower  goes  forth  to  sow : 
Sweet  in  the  summer  the  bean-flowers  blow. 


Thither  the  bee  with  his  ceaseless  hum, 
Thither  the  maids  with  their  lovers  come. 
Pity  that  beauty  cannot  last ! 
Pity  the  blossoms  fade  so  fast ! 

Oh,  sweet  the  scent  of  the  garden  rose : 
As  sweet  on  the  hill  the  bean-flower  blows. 
The  bean  to  the  threshing-floor  shall  come, 
But  the  rose  is  not  at  the  harvest  home. 

Maiden,  what  do  the  bean-flowers  say  ? 
"  Beauty  but  lasts  for  a  little  day; 
Who  learns  the  lesson  our  blossoms  tell, 
May  be  sweet  and  lovely  and  good  as  well." 
St.  James  Gazette. 


UNDER   THE  OPFJV  SPY!  ior' 


TRAILING  ARBUTUS. 

IN  spring,  when  branches  of  woodbine 

Hung  leafless  over  the  rocks, 
And  the  fleecy  snow  in  the  hollows 

Lay  in  unshepherded  flocks, 

By  the  road  where  the  dead  leaves  rustled, 

Or  damply  matted  the  ground, 
While  over  me  gurgled  the  robin 

His  honeyed  passion  of  sound, 

I  saw  the  trailing  arbutus 

Blooming  in  modesty  sweet, 
And  gathered  store  of  its  richness 

Offered  and  spread  at  my  feet. 

It  grew  under  leaves,  as  if  seeking 

No  hint  of  itself  to  disclose, 
And  out  of  its  pink-white  petals 

A  delicate  perfume  rose, 

As  faint  as  the  fond  remembrance 

Of  joy  that  was  only  dreamed  ; 
And  like  a  divine  suggestion 

The  scent  of  the  flower  seemed. 

I  had  sought  for  love  on  the  highway, 

For  love  unselfish  and  pure, 
And  had  found  it  in  good  deeds  blooming, 

Though  often  in  haunts  obscure. 

Often  in  leaves  by  the  wayside, 
But  touched  with  a  heavenly  glow, 

And  with  self-sacrifice  fragrant, 
The  flowers  of  great  love  grow. 

O  lovely  and  lowly  arbutus  ! 

As  year  unto  year  succeeds, 
Be  thou  the  laurel  and  emblem 

Of  noble,  unselfish  deeds. 
The  Academy.  HENRY  ABBEY. 

A  FLOWER  FROM  THE  CAT  SKILLS. 

THE  orchards  that  climb  the  hillsides, 

That  lie  in  the  valley  below, 
Are  white  in  the  soft  May  sunshine, 

And  fragrant  with  May-day  snow. 
The  violets  wakened  by  April 

Their  watch  in  the  meadow  yet  keep, 
The  golden  spurs  of  the  columbine 

Are  hung  where  the  lichens  creep. 


102  >  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Still  gleams  by  the  sluggish  waters 

Some  loitering  marigold, 
Where  ferns,  late  greeting  the  sunshine, 

Their  downy  green  plumes  unfold. 
And  just  by  the  wooded  waysides 

Faint  glows  the  azalea's  blush,  — 
The  dawn  of  the  coming  summer, 

The  morning's  awakening  flush ! 

But  there  where  the  wind-rent  rain-clouds 

O'ershadow  the  Catskills'  crest, 
There  blossoms  one  flower  more  precious, 

Far  sweeter  than  all  the  rest. 
Where  scarcely  a  leaf  has  opened, 

The  promise  of  summer  to  give, 
Where  the  lingering  winds  of  winter 

For  the  sleet  and  the  snow-drift  grieve, 

Where  the  trees  grow  scant  and  stunted, 

And  scarcely  a  shadow  is  cast, 
There  nestles  the  trailing  arbutus 

Close,  close  to  the  hill's  cold  breast. 
The  storm-winds  give  to  it  courage, 

The  skies  give  it  power  to  bless, 
And  it  giveth  to  all  its  loving 

In  its  happy  thankfulness. 

Now  pink  as  the  lip  of  the  sea-shell, 

Now  white  as  the  breakers'  foam, 
It  spreadeth  its  stainless  treasure 

To  brighten  its  rugged  home. 
Low  trailing  amid  the  mosses 

Its  delicate  blossoms  lie,  — 
Giving  the  earth  its  beauty, 

Its  worship  giving  the  sky. 

Though  bleak  be  the  home  that  reared  it, 

And  rough  be  its  lullaby, 
Gathering  strength  from  the  tempest, 

And  grace  from  the  fair  blue  sky, 
It  waiteth  with  patient  longing, 

In  the  snow's  embrace  held  fast, 
Still  trusting,  with  faith  unbroken, 

The  sun  to  welcome  at  last,  — 

To  welcome  with  loving  greeting 

The  soft  falling  step  of  spring, 
Scarce  felt  on  the  northern  hill-slopes, 

Where  the  lingering  snow-drifts  cling; 
And  faint  on  the  winds  up-sweeping 

Is  wafted  its  perfume  rare, 
Like  the  incense  of  worship  ascending,  — 

The  mountains'  low,  unspoken  prayer  ! 


UNDER    THE  OPEN  SKY.  103 

O  brave  little  blossom !  still  teach  us 

Through  love  to  be  patient  and  strong, 
Though  the  spring  be  laggard  in  coming, 

And  the  days  be  dark  and  long. 
Like  thy  bloom  by  the  rude  ways  scattered, 

Each  day  some  life  may  we  bless, 
Till  our  souls,  like  thy  fragrance  ascending, 

Reach  heavenly  perfectness. 

E.  W. 


HEARTHS-EASE. 

WHILE  o'er  my  life  still  hung  the  morning  star, 

Dreamy  and  soft  in  tender-lighted  skies, 
While  care  and  sorrow  held  themselves  afar, 
And  no  sad  mist  of  tears  had  dimmed  my  eyes, 
I  saw  Love's  roses  blowing, 
With  scent  and  color  glowing, 
And  so  I  wished  for  them  with  longing  sighs. 

The  brightest  hung  so  high,  and  held  aloft 
Their  crimson  faces,  passionately  bright ; 
The  gay,  rich,  golden  ones  escaped  me  oft, 

And  hedged  with  sharpest  thorns  the  lofty  white  ; 
From  all  my  eager  pleading 
They  turned  away,  unheeding; 
Among  Love's  roses  none  were  mine  of  right. 

Yet,  of  sweet  things,  those  roses  seemed  most  sweet 

And  most  desirable,  until  a  voice, 
Soft  as  sad  music,  said,  "  Lo,  at  thy  feet 
A  little  flower  shall  make  thy  heart  rejoice." 
And  so,  the  voice  obeying, 
I  saw,  in  beauty  straying, 
A  wealth  of  heart's-ease,  waiting  for  my  choice. 

Great  purple  pansies,  each  with  snowy  heart, 

And  golden  ones,  with  eyes  of  deepest  blue ; 
Some  "  freaked  with  jet,"  some  pure  white  ones  apart, 
But  all  so  sweet  and  fresh  with  morning  dew, 
I  could  not  bear  to  lose  them, 
I  could  not  help  but  choose  them, 
For  sweet  Content  sat  singing  where  they  grew. 

So,  now,  Love's  roses  shake  their  scented  leaves, 

But  tempt  me  not  to  their  enchanted  quest ; 
I  gather  "  heart's-ease,"  set  in  dewy  leaves, 
And  am  content,  — for  me  it  is  the  best. 
Be  glad  if,  sweet  and  glowing, 
You  find  Love's  roses  blowing  — 
I  sing  through  life  with  heart's-ease  at  my  breast. 


104  'fffE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


HELIOTROPE. 

How  strong  they  are,  those  subtile  spells 
That  lurk  in  leaves  and  flower-bells, 

Rising  from  faint  perfumes ; 
Or,  mingling  with  some  olden  strain, 
Strike  through  the  music  shafts  of  pain, 

And  people  empty  rooms. 

They  come  upon  us  unaware, 
In  crowded  halls  and  open  air, 

And  in  our  chambers  still ; 
A  song,  an  odor,  or  a  bird 
Evokes  the  spell  and  strikes  the  chord, 

And  all  our  pulses  thrill. 

I  wandered  but  an  hour  ago, 

With  lagging  footsteps  tired  and  slow, 

Along  the  garden  walk ; 
The  summer  twilight  wrapped  me  round, 
Through  open  windows  came  the  sound 

Ofsong  and  pleasant  talk. 

The  odor-stealing  dews  lay  wet 
And  heavy  on  the  mignonette 

That  crept  about  my  feet ; 
Upon  the  folded  mossy  vest 
That  clothed  the  ruby  rose's  breast 

It  fell  in  droppings  sweet. 

It  fell  on  beds  of  purple  bloom, 
From  whence  arose  the  rare  perfume 

Of  dainty  heliotrope ; 

Which  smote  my  heart  with  sudden  power,  - 
My  favorite  scent,  my  favorite  flower, 

In  olden  days  of  hope  ! 

Ah,  me !  the  years  have  come  and  gone, 
Each  with  its  melody  or  moan, 

Since  that  sunshiny  hour, 
When,  for  the  sake  of  hands  that  brought, 
And  for  the  lesson  sweet  it  taught, 

I  chose  it  for  my  flower. 

Faint-scented  blossoms !    Long  ago 
Your  purple  clusters  came  to  show 

My  life  had  wider  scope ; 
They  spoke  of  love  that  day  —  to-night 
I  stand  apart  from  love's  delight, 

And  wear  no  heliotrope. 


UNDER    THE  OPEN  SKY.  105 

Between  to-night  and  that  far  day 

Lie  life's  bright  noon  and  twilight  gray,  — 

But  I  have  lived  through  both ; 
And  if  before  my  paling  face 
The  midnight  shadows  fall  apace, 

I  see  them,  nothing  loath. 

Only  to-night  that  faint  perfume 
Reminds  me  of  the  lonely  gloom 

Of  life  outliving  hope  ;  — 
I  wish  I  had  been  far  to-night 
What  time  the  dew  fell,  silver-white, 

Upon  the  heliotrope  1 


THE   CLOVER. 

SOME  sings  of  the  lily,  and  daisy,  and  rose, 

And  the  pansies  and  pinks  that  the  summer-time  throws 

In  the  green  grassy  lap  of  the  medder  that  lays 

Blinkm  up  at  the  skies  through  the  sunshiny  days ; 

But  what  is  the  lily  and  all  of  the  rest 

Of  the  flowers  to  a  man  with  a  heart  in  his  breast 

That  has  dipped  brimmin'  full  of  the  honey  and  dew 

Of  the  sweet  clover-blossoms  his  babyhood  knew  ? 

I  never  set  eyes  on  a  clover-field  now, 

Or  fool  round  a  stable,  or  climb  in  the  mow, 

But  my  childhood  comes  back,  just  as  clear  and  as  plain 

As  the  smell  of  the  clover  I  'm  sniffin'  again ; 

And  I  wander  away  in  a  barefooted  dream, 

Where  I  tangle  my  toes  in  the  blossoms  that  gleam 

With  the  dew  of  the  dawn  of  the  morning  of  love 

Ere  it  wept  o'er  the  graves  that  I  'm  weepin*  above. 

And  so  I  love  clover  —  it  seems  like  a  part 
Of  the  sacredest  sorrows  and  joys  of  my  heart ; 
And  wherever  it  blossoms,  oh,  there  let  me  bow, 
And  thank  the  good  God  as  I  'm  thankin'  him  now ; 
And  I  pray  to  him  still  for  the  strength,  when  I  die, 
To  go  out  in  the  clover  and  tell  it  good-by, 
And  lovingly  nestle  my  face  in  its  bloom, 
While  my  soul  slips  away  on  a  breath  of  perfume. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


THE  VIOLET'S  GRAVE. 

THE  woodland,  and  the  golden  wedge 
Of  sunshine  slipping  through ; 

And  there,  beside  a  bit  of  hedge, 
A  violet  so  blue  I 


:o6  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

So  tender  was  its  beauty,  and 

So  douce  and  sweet  its  air, 
I  stooped,  and  yet  withheld  my  hand  — 

Would  pluck,  and  yet  would  spare. 

Now  which  was  best  ?    For  spring  will  pass, 

And  vernal  beauty  fly  — 
On  maiden's  breast  or  in  the  grass, 

Where  would  you  choose  to  die  ? 

FROM  THE  SICILIAN  OF  VICORTARL 


THE  LILY  AND  THE  LINDEN. 

FAR  away  under  skies  of  blue, 

In  the  pleasant  land  beyond  the  sea, 

Bathed  with  sunlight  and  washed  with  dew, 
Budded  and  bloomed  the  fleur-de-lis. 

Through  mists  of  morning,  one  by  one, 
Grandly  the  perfect  leaves  unfold, 

And  the  dusky  glow  of  the  sinking  sun 
Flushed  and  deepened  its  hues  of  gold. 

She  saw  him  rise  o'er  the  rolling  Rhine, 
She  saw  him  set  in  the  western  sea, 

"  Where  is  the  empress,  garden  mine, 
Doth  rule  a  realm  like  the  fleur-de-lis  ? 

"  The  forest  trembles  before  the  breath, 
From  the  island  oak  to  the  northern  pine, 

And  the  blossoms  pale  with  the  hue  of  death 
When  my  anger  rustles  the  tropic  vine. 

"  The  lotus  wakes  from  its  slumbers  lone, 

To  waft  its  homage  unto  me, 
And  the  spice-groves  lay  before  my  throne 

The  tribute  due  to  the  fleur-de-lis  !  " 

So  hailed  she  vassals  far  and  wide, 
Till  her  glance  swept  over  a  hemisphere, 

But  noted  not,  in  her  queenly  pride, 
A  slender  sapling  growing  near. 

Slow  uprising  o'er  glade  and  glen, 
Its  branches  bent  in  the  breezes  free, 

But  its  roots  were  set  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
Who  gave  their  life  to  the  linden-tree. 


UNDER    THE   OPEN  SKY.  107 

"  Speak,  O  seer  of  the  mighty  mien  1 

Answer,  sage  of  the  mystic  air  ! 
"What  is  the  lot  of  the  linden  green? 

What  is  the  fate  of  the  lily  fair  ?  " 

"  Hear'st  thou  the  wail  of  the  winter  wake  ? 

Hear'st  thou  the  roar  of  the  angry  sea  ? 
Ask  not,  for  heaven's  own  thunders  break 

On  the  linden  fair  and  the  fleur-de-lis  1 " 


The  storm-clouds  fade  from  the  murky  air, 

Again  the  freshening  breezes  blow, 
The  sunbeams  rest  on  the  garden  rare, 

But  the  lily  lies  buried  beneath  the  snow  ! 

From  the  ice-locked  Rhine  to  the  western  sea 

Mournfully  spreads  the  wintry  pall, 
Cold  and  still  is  the  fleur-de-lis, 

But  the  linden  threatens  to  shadow  all  I 

Frowning  down  on  the  forest  wide, 

Darkly  loometh  his  giant  form, 
Alone  he  stands  in  his  kingly  pride, 

And  mocks  at  whirlwind  and  laughs  at  storm. 

"  Speak,  O  sage  of  the  mystic  air ! 

Answer,  seer  of  the  mighty  mien  ! 
Must  all  thy  trees  of  the  forest  fair 

Fall  at  the  feet  of  the  linden  green  ?" 

"  Wouldst  thou  the  scroll  of  the  future  see  ? 

Thus  I  divine  the  fate  of  all  ! 
A  worm  is  sapping  the  linden-tree, 

The  pride  that  goeth  before  a  fall. 

"  For  shame  may  come  to  the  haughty  crest, 
A  storm  may  sweep  from  the  northern  sea, 

And  winds  from  the  east  and  winds  from  the  west 
May  blow  in  wrath  o'er  the  linden-tree  ! 

"  Here,  where  the  voice  of  the  winter  grieves, 

The  lily  hath  lain  its  regal  head ; 
Bright  was  the  gleam  of  the  golden  leaves, 

But  the  lily  was  flecked  with  spots  of  red. 

"  Behind  the  clouds  of  the  battle  strife 

The  glow  of  resurrection  see  ! 
Lo !  I  proclaim  a  newer  life, 

The  truer  birth  of  the  fleur-de-lis ! " 


I08  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Thus  saith  the  seer  of  the  mighty  mien, 

Thus  saith  the  sage  of  the  mystic  air, 

The  sunshine  fell  from  the  linden  green 

And  gilded  the  grave  of  the  lily  fair. 

Stewards  Quarterly.  DR.  FRED  CROSBY. 


RAIN. 

MILLIONS  of  massive  rain-drops 

Have  fallen  all  around ; 
They  have  danced  on  the  house-tops, 

They  have  hidden  in  the  ground. 

They  were  liquid  like  musicians 

With  anything  for  keys, 
Beating  tunes  upon  the  windows, 

Keeping  time  upon  the  trees. 


PROMISE. 

THERE  is  a  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

Upon  the  arch  where  tempests  trod ; 

God  wrote  it  ere  the  world  was  dry  — 
It  is  the  autograph  of  God. 

f  NOTE.  —  This  quatrain  was  cut  from  the  body  of  a  poem  which  contained 
little  else  of  worth,  and  the  very  title  of  which  is  now  forgotten. 


WHAT  THEY   DREAMED  AND   SAID. 

ROSE  dreamed  she  was  a  lily, 

Lily  dreamed  she  was  a  rose  ; 
Robin  dreamed  he  was  a  sparrow, 

What  the  owl  dreamed  no  one  knows. 

But  they  all  woke  up  together 

As  happy  as  could  be. 
Said  each  one  :  "  You  're  lovely,  neighbor, 

But  I  'm  very  glad  I  'm  me. 

M.  E. 


THE  WANDERER. 

UPON  a  mountain  height,  far  from  the  sea, 

I  found  a  shell ; 

And  to  my  listening  ear  this  lonely  thing 
Ever  a  song  of  ocean  seemed  to  sing,  — 

Ever  a  tale  of  ocean  seemed  to  tell. 


UNDER   THE  OPEN  SKY.  109 

How  came  this  shell  upon  the  mountain  height  ? 

Ah,  who  can  say 

Whether  there  dropped  by  some  too  careless  hand, 
Whether  there  cast  when  oceans  swept  the  land, 

Ere  the  Eternal  had  ordained  the  day  ? 

Strange,  was  it  not  ?    Far  from  its  native  deep, 

One  song  it  sang  : 

Sang  of  the  awful  mysteries  of  the  tide, 
Sang  of  the  storied  sea,  profound  and  wide,  — 

Ever  with  echoes  of  old  ocean  rang. 

And  as  the  shell  upon  the  mountain  height 

Sang  of  the  sea, 

So  do  I  ever,  leagues  and  leagues  away, 
So  do  I  ever,  wandering  where  I  may, 

Sing,  O  my  home  !  sing,  O  my  home,  of  thee ! 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


METEORS. 

TEARS  of  gold  the  heavens  wept ; 
They  fell  and  were  by  billows  swept 
Into  the  sea,  'mid  coral  caves, 
Where  roll  the  ever-restless  waves. 

And  thus  they  lay,  till  they  were  found 
By  mermaids  on  the  ocean's  ground. 
The  sea-nymphs  took  the  gems  so  rare, 
And  wound  them  in  their  sea-green  hair. 

And  often  now  some  summer's  night 
The  ocean  gleams  with  golden  light 
Caused  by  the  mermaids  sporting  there 
With  tears  of  gold  in  flowing  hair. 

ANNA  PH.  EICHBERG. 


A  BROOK  SONG. 

I  'M  hastening  from  the  distant  hills 

With  swift  and  noisy  flowing  ; 
Nursed  by  a  thousand  tiny  rills, 

I  'm  ever  onward  going. 
The  willows  cannot  stay  my  course, 

With  all  their  pliant  wooing  ; 
I  sing  and  sing  till  I  am  hoarse, 

My  prattling  way  pursuing. 
I  kiss  the  pebbles  as  I  pass, 

And  hear  them  say  thev  love  me, 


110  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

I  make  obeisance  to  the  grass 

That  kindly  bends  above  me. 
So  onward  through  the  meads  and  dells 

I  hasten,  never  knowing 
The  secret  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  I  am  going. 

A  little  child  comes  often  here 

To  watch  my  quaint  commotion 
As  I  go  tumbling  swift  and  clear 

Down  to  the  distant  ocean  ; 
And  as  he  plays  upon  my  brink, 

So  thoughtless  like  and  merry 
And  full  of  noisy  song,  I  think 

The  child  is  like  me,  very. 
Through  all  the  years  of  youthful  play, 

With  ne'er  a  thought  of  sorrow, 
We,  prattling,  speed  upon  our  way, 

Unmindful  of  the  morrow  ; 
Aye, through  these  sunny  meads  and  dells* 

We  gambol,  never  trowing 
The  solemn  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  we  are  going. 

And  men  come  here  to  say  to  me  : 

"  Like  you,  with  weird  commotion, 
O  little  singing  brooklet,  we 

Are  hastening  to  the  ocean ; 
Down  to  a  vast  and  misty  deep, 

With  fleeting  tears  and  laughter 
We  go,  nor  rest  until  we  sleep 

In  that  profound  Hereafter. 
What  tides  may  bear  our  souls  along, 

What  monsters  rise  appalling, 
What  distant  shores  may  hear  our  song 

And  answer  to  our  calling  ? 
Kh,  who  can  say  !     Through  meads  and  dells 

We  wander,  never  knowing 
The  awful  motive  that  impels, 

Or  whither  we  are  going  !  " 

EUGENE  FIELD, 


THE  PRAIRIE   PATH. 

UPON  the  brown  and  frozen  sod 

The  wind's  wet  fingers  shake  the  rain ; 
The  bare  shrubs  shiver  in  the  blast 

Against  the  dripping  window-pane. 
Inside,  strange  shadows  haunt  the  room, 

The  flickering  firelights  rise  and  fall, 
And  make  I  know  not  what  strange  shapes 

Upon  the  pale  gray  parlor  wall. 


UNDER   THE  OPEN  SKY.  1 1  j 

I  feel,  but  do  not  see  these  things,  — 

My  soul  stands  under  other  skies  ; 
There  is  a  wondrous  radiance  comes 

Between  my  eyelids  and  my  eyes. 
I  seem  to  pull  down  on  my  feet 

God's  gentian  flowers,  as  on  I  pass 
Through  a  great  prairie,  still  and  sweet 

With  growing  vines  and  blowing  grass. 

And  then  —  ah !  whence  can  he  have  come  ?  — 

I  feel  a  small  hand  touching  mine ; 
Our  voices  first  are  like  the  breath 

That  sways  the  grass  and  scented  vine. 
But  clearer  grow  the  childish  words 

Of  Egypt  and  of  Hindostan ; 
And  Archie  's  telling  me  again 

Where  he  will  go  when  he  's  a  man. 

The  smell  of  pines  is  strangely  blent 

With  sandal-wood,  and  broken  spice, 
And  cores  of  calamus  ;  the  flowers 

Grow  into  gems  of  wondrous  price. 
We  sit  down  in  the  grass  and  dream  ; 

His  face  grows  strangely  bright  and  fair ; 
I  think  it  is  the  amber  gleam 

Of  sunset  in  his  pale  gold  hair. 

But  while  I  look  I  see  a  path 

Across  the  prairie  to  the  light ; 
And  Archie,  with  his  small,  bare  feet, 

Has  almost  passed  beyond  my  sight. 
Upon  my  heart  there  falls  a  smile, 

Upon  my  ears  a  soft  adieu  : 
I  see  the  glory  in  his  face, 

And  know  his  dreams  have  all  come  true. 

Some  day  I  shall  go  hence  and  home,  — 

We  shall  go  hence,  I  mean  to  say ; 
And  as  we  pass  the  shoals  of  time, 

"  My  brother,"  I  shall,  pleading,  say, 
"  There  was  upon  the  prairie  wide 

A  spot  so  dear  to  thee  and  me, 
I  fain  would  see  it  ere  we  walk 

The  fields  of  Immortality/' 


A   SUMMER   PICTURE. 

FROM  saffron  to  yellow,  from  purple  to  gray, 
Slow  fades  on  the  mountain  the  beautiful  day ; 
I  sit  where  the  roses  are  heavy  with  bloom, 
And  wait  for  the  moonlight  to  whiten  the  gloom 


112  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Far  down  the  green  valley  I  see  through  the  night 
The  lamps  of  the  village  shine  steady  and  bright ; 
But  on  my  sweet  silence  there  creeps  not  a  tone 
Of  labor  or  sorrow,  of  pleading  or  moan. 

Low  sings  the  glad  river  along  its  dark  way, 
An  echo  by  night  of  its  chiming  by  day ; 
And  tremulous  branches  lean  down  to  the  tide, 
To  dimple  the  waters  that  under  them  glide. 

The  night  moths  are  flitting  about  in  the  gloom, 
Their  wings  from  the  blossoms  shake  dainty  perfume  •, 
I  know  where  the  cups  of  the  lilies  are  fair, 
By  the  breath  of  their  sweetness  that  floats  on  the  air. 

I  sit  in  the  shadow  ;  but  lo  !  in  the  west 

The  mountains  in  garments  of  glory  are  drest ! 

And  slowly  the  sheen  of  their  brightness  drops  down 

To  rest  on  the  hills  in  a  luminous  crown. 

The  dew  glitters  clear  where  the  shadows  are  green ; 
In  ranks  of  white  splendor  the  lilies  are  seen  ; 
And  the  roses  above  me  sway  lightly  to  greet 
Their  shadowy  sisters,  afloat  at  my  feet. 

Low  sings  the  glad  river ;  its  waters  alight, 
A  pathway  of  silver,  lead  on  through  the  night ; 
And  fair  as  the  glorified  isles  of  the  blest 
Lies  all  the  sweet  valley,  the  valley  of  rest. 


AUTUMN. 

T  is  the  golden  gleam  of  an  autumn  day, 
With  the  soft  rain  raining  as  if  in  play ; 
And  a  tender  touch  upon  everything, 
As  if  autumn  remembered  the  days  of  spring. 

In  the  listening  woods  there  is  not  a  breath 
To  shake  their  gold  to  the  sward  beneath ; 
And  a  glow  as  of  sunshine  on  them  lies, 
Though  the  sun  is  hid  in  the  shadowed  skies. 

The  cock's  clear  crow  from  the  farmyard  comes, 
The  muffled  bell  from  the  belfry  booms, 
And  faint  and  dim,  and  from  far  away, 
Come  the  voices  of  children  in  happy  play. 


UNDER   THE  OPEN  SKY.  113 

O'er  the  mountains  the  white  rain  draws  its  veil, 
And  the  black  rooks,  cawing,  across  them  sail ; 
While  nearer  the  swooping  swallows  skim 
O'er  the  steel-gray  river's  fretted  brim. 

No  sorrow  upon  the  landscape  weighs, 
No  grief  for  the  vanished  summer  days  ; 
But  a  sense  of  peaceful  and  calm  repose 
Like  that  which  age  in  autumn  knows. 

The  springtime  longings  are  past  and  gone, 
The  passions  of  summer  no  longer  are  known, 
The  harvest  is  gathered,  and  autumn  stands 
Serenely  thoughtful,  with  folded  hands. 

Over  all  is  thrown  a  memorial  hue, 
A  glory  ideal  the  real  ne'er  knew ; 
For  memory  sifts  from  the  past  its  pain, 
And  suffers  its  beauty  alone  to  remain. 

With  half  a  smile  and  half  a  sigh 
It  ponders  the  past  that  has  hurried  by : 
Sees  it  and  feels  it  and  loves  it  all, 
Content  it  has  vanished  beyond  recall. 

O  glorious  autumn,  thus  serene, 
Thus  living  and  loving  all  that  has  been! 
Thus  calm  and  contented  let  me  be 
When  the  autumn  of  age  shall  come  to  w*. 
Blackwood. 


WINTER. 

WHERE  are  the  flowers  ?  where  the  leaves  ? 

Where  the  sweet  zephyrs'  gentle  breath? 
Where  mellowed  fruits  and  golden  sheaves? 

Dead,  dead ;  all  icy  bound  in  death  ! 
Is  Love  too  dead  ?    Hence,  needless  pain  I 
Love  only  sleeps  to  wake  again. 
Love  dead  ?    Ah,  no,  not  so  with  Love  I 
Love  only  dies  to  live  above. 


WINTER. 

THOU  dark-robed  man  with  solemn  pace, 
And  mantle  muffled  round  thy  face, 
Like  the  dim  vision  seen  by  Saul, 
Upraised  by  spells  from  Death's  dark  hall ; 
8 


114  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Thou  sad,  small  man,  —  face  thin  and  old, 

Teeth  set,  and  nose  pinched  blue  and  cold,  — 

Ne'er  mind !     Thy  coat,  so  long  and  black, 

And  fitting  round  thee  all  so  slack, 

Has  glorious  spangles,  and  its  stars 

Are  like  a  conqueror's  fresh  from  wars. 

Who  wove  it  in  Time's  awful  loom 

With  woof  of  glory,  warp  of  gloom  ? 

Jove's  planet  glitters  on  thy  breast ; 

The  morning  star  adorns  thy  crest ; 

The  waxing  or  the  waning  moon 

Clings  to  thy  turban  late  or  soon ; 

Orion's  belt  is  thine,  —  thy  thigh 

His  jewelled  sword  hangs  briefly  by ; 

The  Pleiades  seven,  the  Gypsy's  star, 

Shine  as  thy  shoulder-knots  afar  ; 

And  the  great  Dog-star,  bright,  unknown, 

Blazes  beside  thee  like  a  throne. 

Take  heart !    Thy  coat,  so  long  and  black, 

Sore  worn,  and  fitting  round  thee  slack, 

Is  broidered  by  the  Northern  Lights, 

Those  silvery  arrows  shot  by  sprites,  — 

Is  powdered  by  the  Milky  Way 

With  awful  pearls  unknown  to  day, 

Which  well  make  up  for  all  the  hues 

Proud  Summer,  bridegroom-like,  may  use. 

Proud  Summer,  with  his  roses*  sheen, 

And  dress  of  scarlet,  blue,  and  green, 

Floods  us  with  such  a  sea  of  light 

We  miss  the  faint,  far  isles  of  Night, 

And  thoughtless  dance,  while  he  with  lutes 

Beguiles  us  or  assists  to  fruits ; 

But  like  a  shade  from  Spirit-land 

Dim  Winter  beckons  with  his  hand,  — 

He  beckons;  all  things  darker  grow, 

Save  white-churned  waves  and  wreathing  snow. 

We  pause  ;  a  chill  creeps  through  our  veins  ; 

We  dare  not  thank  him  for  his  pains  j 

We  fear  to  follow,  and  we  creep 

To  candle-light,  to  cards,  to  sleep. 

Yet  when  we  follow  him,  how  deep 
The  secret  he  has  got  to  keep  i 
How  wonderful !  how  passing  grand  ! 
For,  peering  through  his  storms,  there  stand 
The  eternal  cities  of  the  sky, 
With  stars  like  street-lamps  hung  on  high ; 
No  angel  yet  can  sum  their  worth, 
Though  angels  sang  when  they  had  birth. 
Chambers' 's  Journal. 


UNDER    THE  OPEN  SKY.  115 


OCTOBER. 

THERE  comes  a  month  in  the  weary  year,  — 
A  month  of  leisure  and  healthful  rest ; 

When  the  ripe  leaves  fall  and  the  air  is  clear,  — 
October,  the  brown,  the  crisp,  the  blest. 

My  life  has  little  enough  of  bliss ; 

I  drag  the  days  of  the  odd  eleven, 
Counting  the  time  that  shall  lead  to  this,  — 

The  month  that  opens  the  hunter's  heaven. 

And  oh !  for  the  mornings  crisp  and  white, 
With  the  sweep  of  the  hounds  upon  the  track ; 

The  bark-roofed  cabin,  the  camp-fire's  light, 
The  break  of  the  deer,  and  the  rifle's  crack ! 

Do  you  call  this  trifling  ?    I  tell  you,  friend, 

A  life  in  the  forest  is  past  all  praise ; 
Give  me  a  dozen  such  months  on  end, 

You  may  take  my  balance  of  years  and  days. 

For  brick  and  mortar  breed  filth  and  crime, 
And  a  pulse  of  evil  that  throbs  and  beats ; 

And  men  grow  withered  before  their  prime, 

With  the  curse  paved  in  on  the  lanes  and  streets ; 

And  lungs  are  choked,  and  shoulders  are  bowed, 
In  the  smoking  reek  of  mill  and  mine  ; 

And  Death  stalks  in  on  the  struggling  crowd, 
But  he  shuns  the  shadow  of  oak  and  pine. 

And  of  all  to  which  the  memory  clings, 

There  is  nought  so  sweet  as  the  sunny  spots 

Where  our  shanties  stood  by  the  crystal  springs, 
The  vanished  hounds  and  the  lucky  shots. 


OCTOBER. 

OH,  haunting  dreams  of  a  sweet  summer  dead ! 

Ye  bring  me  heart-ache  in  your  whispers  low,  — 
Echoes  of  song  I  may  not  hear  again, 

Voices  whose  tones  were  silent  long  ago ; 
Visions  of  orchards  crowned  with  bridal  bloom, 

Where  apple-blossoms  scent  the  air  of  May, 
And  from  the  sloping  hillside  comes  the  sound 

Of  sweet-voiced  children  at  their  happy  play. 


Il6  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

There  is  a  low,  sad  rustle  in  the  air, 

Among  the  yellow  banners  of  the  corn ; 
The  faded  sunflower  droops  her  heavy  head, 

The  garden  border  of  its  wealth  is  shorn. 
A  subtile  stillness  broods  o'er  all  the  scene, 

The  benediction  of  the  year  has  come ; 
The  sheaves  are  garnered  from  the  fading  field, 

The  husbandman  has  sung  the  "  Harvest  Home." 

In  faded  meadows,  where  the  partridge  trills 

His  clear,  loud  song  to  call  his  wandering  mate, 
The  streams  are  shallow  and  the  grasses  brown, 

Where  scarlet  poppies  flecked  the  field  but  late. 
There  is  a  whisper  in  the  falling  stream, 

A  sigh  through  all  the  aisles  of  forest  trees, 
A  tremulous  vibration  in  the  songs 

The  wild  birds  pour  upon  the  evening  breeze. 

The  sweet,  dead  days  will  come  to  us  no  more ; 

New  summers  may  bring  harvests  of  delight, 
Fair  days  may  dawn  with  eyes  of  splendid  hue, 

They  cannot  shine  so  infinitely  bright 
As  the  sweet,  vanished  hours  which  we  have  lost; 

Or  are  they  only  garnered  safe  and  sure, 
To  wait  for  us  in  some  far,  future  world, 

Where  summers  shall  eternally  endure  ? 

The  rustling  leaves  drop  softly  at  my  feet, 
Warm  airs  caress  my  cheeks  with  loving  kiss, 

No  chill  of  autumn  shivers  in  the  air, 
Yet  something  indefinable  I  miss. 

0  Summer  sweet,  if  never  more  on  earth 
I  may  rejoice  in  all  your  beauty  rare, 

1  cannot  say  farewell,  for  we  shall  meet 

Where  you  will  bloom  more  infinitely  fair. 

Church's  Musical  Visitor.  D.  M.  JORDAN. 


LATE  OCTOBER. 

How  peacefully  the  sunlight  fell 

Across  the  woodland's  pleasant  reaches, 
And  like  a  shower  of  gilded  rain 

The  leaves  dropped  from  the  golden  beeches ! 
Far  down  the  shadowy  aisles  I  heard 

An  undertone  of  plaintive  sighing, 
As  if  the  waning  Summer  wept 

For  all  her  glories  dead  and  dying. 

The  golden-rod,  with  drooping  plume, 

Had  lost  its  aureole  of  gladness  ; 
The  starless  mullein  by  the  road 

Dropped  down  its  seeds  like  tears  of  sadness ; 


UNDER    THE  OPEN  SKY.  117 

The  far-off  hill,  veiled  like  a  bride, 
Seemed  wedded  to  the  sky  immortal ; 

And  through  the  sunset's  golden  gate 

There  flashed  the  gleam  of  heaven's  portal. 

O  peaceful  hour,  O  faith  renewed, 

That  touched  the  fading  earth  with  sweetness, 
And  lifted  up  my  heart  in  thanks 

For  life's  glad  measure  of  completeness  ! 
Though  dead  leaves  rustle  at  my  feet, 

And  all  the  fields  are  brown  and  sober, 
The  heart  may  blossom  with  new  hope 

Beneath  the  gray  skies  of  October. 
Cincinnati  Commercial.  D.  M.  JORDAN. 


MOON   AND   DAWN. 

THE  bluest  gray  —  the  grayest  blue, 
Where  golden,  gleaming  stars  are  set ; 

A  moon  whose  glorious  yellow  waves 
Make  fair  the  rippled  rivulet. 

Night  has  her  curtain  over  all ; 

The  firs  show  dark  against  the  sky  ; 
The  only  sound  is  in  the  song 

Of  a  late  nightingale  close  by. 

The  wooded  walks,  which  seemed  so  sweet 
Seen  in  the  morning's  fairy  light, 

Now,  dim  and  shadowy,  hold  no  charm 
Save  the  mysterious  charm  of  night. 

One  swallow  stirs,  the  gold  stars  fade, 
In  the  cold  sky  a  chill  wind  wakes ; 

The  gray  clouds  frighten  out  the  morn, 
And  through  pale  mist  the  new  day  breaks. 

Good-morn  —  good-night  —  which  is  the  best  ? 

God  grant  some  day  that  I  may  find 
Both  true  :  good-morn  to  joy  begun, 
Good-night  to  sorrows  left  behind. 
Sunday  Magazine. 


"WHEN  THE  FROST  IS   ON  THE  PUNKIN." 

WHEN  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder  's  in  the  shock, 
And  you  hear  the  kyouck  and  gobble  of  the  struttin'  turkey- 
cock, 

And  the  clackin'  of  the  guineys,  and  the  cluckin'  of  the  hens, 
And  the  rooster's  hallelooyer  as  he  tiptoes  on  the  fence, 


Il8  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Oh,  it 's  then 's  the  time  a  feller  is  a  feelin*  at  his  best, 

With  the  risin'  sun  to  greet  him  from  a  night  of  gracious  rest, 

As  he  leaves  the  house  bareheaded  and  goes  out  to  feed  the 

stock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder  's  in  the  shock. 

There  's  somepin  kind  o*  hearty-like  about  the  atmosphere 
When  the  heat  of  summer  's  over  and  the  coolin'  fall  is  here. 
Of  cours  we  miss  the  flowers,  and  the  blossoms  on  the  trees, 
And  the  mumble  of  the  hummin'-birds  and  the  buzzin'  of  the  bees ; 
But  the  air  's  so  appetizing  and  the  landscape  through  the  haze 
Of  a  crisp  and  sunny  morning  of  the  early  autumn  days 
Is  a  picture  that  no  painter  has  the  colorin*  to  mock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder 's  in  the  shock. 

The  husky,  rusty  rustle  of  the  tassels  of  the  corn, 
And  the  raspin*  of  the  tangled  leaves  as  golden  as  the  morn ; 
The  stubble  in  the  furries  —  kind  oj  lonesome  like,  but  still 
A  preachin'  sermons  to  us  of  the  barns  they  growed  to  fill ; 
The  straw-stack  in  the  medder,  and  the  reaper  in  the  shed, 
The  bosses  in  their  stalls  below,  the  clover  overhead,  — 
Oh,  it  sets  my  heart  a  clickin'  like  the  tickin'  of  a  clock, 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  and  the  fodder 's  in  the  shock. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


IN  SNOW-TIME. 

How  should  I  choose  to  walk  the  world  with  thee, 

Mine  own  beloved  ?    When  green  grass  is  stirred 

By  summer  breezes,  and  each  leafy  tree 

Shelters  the  nest  of  many  a  singing  bird  ? 

In  time  of  roses,  when  the  earth  doth  lie 

Dressed  in  a  garment  of  midsummer  hues, 

Beneath  a  canopy  of  sapphire  sky, 

Lulled  by  a  soft  wind's  song  ?    Or  should  I  choose 

To  walk  with  thee  along  a  wintry  road, 

Through  flowerless  fields,  thick-sown  with  frosty  rime, 

Beside  an  ice-bound  stream,  whose  waters  flowed 

In  voiceless  music  all  the  summer-time  ? 

In  winter  dreariness,  or  summer  glee, 

How  should  I  choose  to  walk  the  world  with  thee  ? 

The  time  of  roses  is  the  time  of  love, 
Ah,  my  dear  heart !  but  winter  fires  are  bright, 
And  in  the  lack  of  sunshine  from  above 
We  tend  more  carefully  love's  sacred  light. 
The  path  among  the  roses  lieth  soft 
Sun-kissed  and  radiant  under  youthful  feet ; 
But  on  a  wintry  way  true  hands  more  oft 
Do  meet  and  cling  in  pressure  close  and  sweet. 


UNDER   THE  OPEN  SXY.  119 

There  is  more  need  of  love's  supporting  arm 
Along  life's  slippery  pathway,  in  its  frost ; 
There  is  more  need  for  love  to  wrap  us  warm 
Against  life's  cold,  when  summer  flowers  are  lost. 
Let  others  share  thy  life's  glad  summer  glow, 
But  let  me  walk  beside  thee  in  its  snow. 


THE  TROUT-BROOK. 

You  see  it  first  near  the  dusty  road, 
Where  the  farmer  stops  with  his  heavy  load, 

At  the  foot  of  a  weary  hill ; 
There  the  mossy  trough  it  overflows, 
Then  away,  with  a  leap  and  a  laugh,  it  goes 

At  its  own  sweet,  wandering  will. 

It  flows  through  an  orchard  gnarled  and  old, 
Where  in  spring  the  dainty  buds  unfold 

Their  petals  pink  and  white  ; 
The  apple-blossoms,  so  sweet  and  pure, 
The  streamlet's  smiles  and  songs  allure 

To  float  off  on  its  ripples  bright. 

It  winds  through  the  meadow,  scarcely  seen, 
For  o'er  it  the  flowers  and  grasses  lean 

To  salute  its  smiling  face. 
And  thus,  half  hidden,  it  ripples  along, 
The  whole  way  singing  its  summer  song, 

Making  glad  each  arid  place. 

Just  there,  where  the  water,  dark  and  cool, 
Lingers  a  moment  in  yonder  pool, 

The  dainty  trout  are  at  play ; 
And  now  and  then  one  leaps  in  sight, 
With  sides  aglow  in  the  golden  light 

Of  the  long,  sweet  summer  day. 

Oh,  back  to  their  shelves  those  books  consign, 
And  look  to  your  rod  and  reel  and  line, 

Make  fast  the  feathered  hook ; 
Then  away  from  the  town  with  its  hum  of  life, 
Where  the  air  with  worry  and  work  is  rife, 

To  the  charms  of  the  meadow  brook. 

CARL 


1 20  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


THE  CLOUD. 

A  CLOUD  came  over  a  land  of  leaves 

(Oh,  hush,  little  leaves,  lest  it  pass  you  by!)  — 
How  they  had  waited  and  watched  for  the  rain, 
Mountain  and  valley,  and  vineyard  and  plain, 

With  never  a  sign  from  the  sky ! 
Day  after  day  had  the  pitiless  sun 

Looked  down  with  a  lidless  eye. 

But  now  I     On  a  sudden  a  whisper  went 

Through  the  topmost  twigs  of  the  poplar  spire ; 

Out  of  the  east  a  light  wind  blew ; 

(All  the  leaves  trembled,  and  murmured,  and  drew 
Hope  to  the  help  of  desire) ; 

It  stirred  the  faint  pulse  of  the  forest  tree, 

And  breathed  through  the  brake  and  the  brier. 

Slowly  the  cloud  came,  and  then  the  wind  died, 
Dumb  lay  the  land  in  its  hot  suspense  ; 

The  thrush  on  the  elm-bough  suddenly  stopped, 

The  weather- warned  swallow  in  mid-flying  dropped, 
The  linnet  ceased  song  in  the  fence ;  — 

Mute  the  cloud  moved,  till  it  hung  overhead, 
Heavy,  big-bosomed,  and  dense. 

Ah,  the  cool  rush  through  the  dry-tongued  trees, 
The  patter  and  plash  on  the  thirsty  earth, 

The  eager  bubbling  of  runnel  and  rill, 

The  lisping  of  leaves  that  have  drunk  their  fill, 
The  freshness  that  follows  the  dearth  ! 

New  life  for  the  woodland,  the  vineyard,  the  vale, 
New  life  with  the  world's  new  birth  I 


PART  V. 
Xotoe,  Sentiment,  nn& 


The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river % 

And  the  rivers  "with  the  ocean, 
The  -winds  of  heaven  mix  forever 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  -world  is  single  ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle  — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another  ; 
No  sister  flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother: 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea,  — • 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 

Ifthou  kiss  not  me? 

SHELLEY. 


PART  V. 

flotoe,  Sentiment,  anli 


CHALCEDONY. 

AGES  long  since,  upon  the  desert  waste, 

Within  the  hollow  rock  a  gem  was  formed ; 

Liquid  at  first,  it  hardened  age  by  age,  — 

The  rock  slow  crumbling  into  sand,  the  gem  remained. 

Nourished  within  my  heart,  intensest  love 
Of  one  fine  nature,  earnest,  simple,  rare  — 
Grew  crystalline,  and  evermore  shall  live, 
Outlasting  that  poor  home  wherein  it  grew. 

EMMA  POMEROY  GREENOUGH. 


WHEN  WILL  LOVE  COME? 

SOME  find  Love  late,  some  find  him  soon, 

Some  with  the  rose  in  May, 
Some  with  the  nightingale  in  June, 

And  some  when  skies  are  gray ; 
Love  comes  to  some  with  smiling  eyes, 

And  comes  with  tears  to  some  ; 
For  some  Love  sings,  for  some  Love  sighs, 

For  some  Love's  lips  are  dumb. 
How  will  you  come  to  me,  fair  Love  ? 

Will  you  come  late  or  soon  ? 
With  sad  or  smiling  skies  above, 

By  light  of  sun  or  moon  ? 
Will  you  be  sad,  will  you  be  sweet, 

Sing,  sigh,  Love,  or  be  dumb  ? 
Will  it  be  summer  when  we  meet, 

Or  autumn  ere  you  come  ? 

PAKENHAM  BEATTY. 


124  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


A  LOVE'S   LIFE. 

*T  WAS  springtime  of  the  day  and  year ; 

Clouds  of  white  fragrance  hid  the  thorn. 
My  heart  unto  her  heart  drew  near, 

And  ere  the  dew  had  fled  the  morn, 
Sweet  Love  was  born. 

An  August  noon,  an  hour  of  bliss, 
That  stands  amid  my  hours  alonet 

A  word,  a  look,  then  —  ah,  that  kiss ! 
Joy's  veil  was  rent,  her  secret  known : 
Love  was  full-grown. 

And  now  this  drear  November  eve, 

What  has  to-day  seen  done,  heard  said  ? 
It  boots  not ;  who  has  tears  to  grieve 
For  that  last  leaf  yon  tree  has  shed, 

Or  for  Love  dead  ? 
Chambers' s  Journal. 


THIS   YEAR  — NEXT  YEAR. 

THIS  year  —  next  year  —  sometime  —  never, 

Gayly  did  she  tell ; 
Rose-leaf  after  rose-leaf  ever 

Eddied  round  and  fell. 

This  year  —  and  she  blushed  demurely  ; 

That  would  be  too  soon; 
He  could  wait  a  little,  surely, 

T  is  already  June. 

Next  year  —  that 's  almost  too  hurried, 

Laughingly  said  she ; 
For  when  once  a  girl  is  married, 

She  no  more  is  free. 

Sometime  —  that  is  vague  —  long  waiting 

Many  a  trouble  brings  ; 
'Twixt  delaying  and  debating 

Love  might  use  its  wings. 

Never  —  word  of  evil  omen, 

And  she  sighed,  heigh-ho,  — 
T  is  the  hardest  lot  for  women 

Lone  through  life  to  go. 

Next  year  —  early  in  the  May-time, 

Was  to  be  the  day ; 
Looked  she  sweetly  toward  that  gay  time 

Gleaming  far  away. 


LOVE,   SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       125 

Never  —  fair  with  bridal  flowers 

Came  that  merry  spring  ; 
Ere  those  bright  and  radiant  hours 

She  had  taken  wing. 

This  year  —  hearts  are  bound  by  sorrow ; 

Next  year — some  forget ; 
Sometime  —  comes  that  golden  morrow; 

Never  —  earth  say  yet. 


LIGHT. 

THE  night  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  day  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  the  bright  world  dies 

With  the  dying  sun. 

The  mind  has  a  thousand  eyes, 

And  the  heart  but  one  ; 
Yet  the  light  of  a  whole  life  dies 

When  love  is  done. 

FRANCIS  W.  BOURDILLON 


LOVE  AND   PITY. 

LOVE  came  a  beggar  to  her  gate, 
The  night  was  drear,  the  hour  was  late, 
And  through  the  glqom  she  heard  his  moan 
Where  at  the  gate  he  stood  alone. 

His  rounded  form  in  rags  was  clad, 
His  weeping  eyes  were  wan  and  sad ; 
But  hid  beneath  his  garb  of  woe 
He  bore  his  arrows  and  his  bow. 

She  wept  to  see  the  beggar  weep, 
She  bade  him  on  her  bosom  sleep, 
His  wretched  plight  allayed  her  fears, 
She  kissed  and  bathed  him  with  her  tears. 

The  merry  eyes  began  to  glow, 
The  rosy  hand  essayed  the  bow, 
The  rough  disguise  was  cast  aside, 
And  laughing  Love  for  mercy  cried. 

Love  came  a  beggar  to  her  gate, 

More  wisely  than  with  pomp  and  state ; 

For  who  hath  woman's  pity  won 

May  count  love's  siege  and  battle  done. 


126  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


COULDN'T  KEEP  A   SECRET. 

I  TOLD  my  secret  to  the  sweet  wild  roses, 

Heavy  with  dew,  new  waking  in  the  morn ; 
And  they  had  breathed  it  to  a  thousand  others 

Before  another  day  was  slowly  born. 
"  Oh,  fickle  roses,"  said  I,  "  you  shall  perish !  " 

So  plucked  them  for  my  lady  sweet  to  wear 
In  the  pure  silence  of  her  maiden  bosom, 

The  curled  luxuriance  of  her  chestnut  hair. 

I  told  the  secret  to  a  bird  new  building 

Her  nest  at  peace  within  the  spreading  tree  ; 
And  ere  her  children  had  begun  to  chatter, 

She  told  it  o'er  and  o'er  right  joyously. 
"  Oh,  traitor  bird,"  I  whispered,  "  stay  thy  singing, 

Thou  dost  not  know,  there  in  thy  nest  above, 
That  secrets  are  not  made  to  tell  to  others, 

That  silence  is  the  birthright  of  true  love." 

I  told  the  secret  to  my  love,  my  lady  ; 

She  held  it  closely  to  her  darling  breast. 
Then,  as  I  clasped  her,  came  a  tiny  whisper : 

"  The  birds  and  flowers  told  me  all  the  rest, 
Nor  shouldst  thou  chide  them  that  they  spake  the  secret; 

The  whole  world  is  a  chord  of  love  divine, 
And  birds  and  flowers  but  fulfil  their  mission 

In  telling  secrets  sweet  as  mine  and  thine." 
All  the  Year  Round. 


WHAT  MY  LOVER   SAID. 

BY  the  merest  chance,  in  the  twilight  gloom, 

In  the  orchard  path  he  met  me, 
In  the  tall  wet  grass  with  its  faint  perfume, 
And  I  tried  to  pass,  but  he  made  no  room; 

Oh,  I  tried,  but  he  would  not  let  me  ! 
So  I  stood  and  blushed  till  the  grass  grew  red, 

With  my  face  bent  down  above  it, 
While  he  took  my  hand,  as  he  whispering  said  - 
How  the  clover  lifted  its  pink,  sweet  head, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said ! 

Oh,  the  clover  in  bloom  !  I  love  it. 

In  the  high,  wet  grass  went  the  path  to  hide, 

And  the  low  wet  leaves  hung  over ; 
But  I  could  not  pass  on  either  side, 
For  I  found  myself,  when  I  vainly  tried, 
In  the  arms  of  my  steadfast  lover. 


LOVE,   SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       127 

And  he  held  me  there  and  he  raised  my  head, 

While  he  closed  the  path  before  me, 
And  he  looked  down  into  my  eyes  and  said  — 
How  the  leaves  bent  down  from  the  boughs  o'erhead, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said, 

Oh,  the  leaves  hanging  lowly  o'er  me ! 

I  am  sure  he  knew,  when  he  held  me  fast, 

That  I  must  be  all  unwilling; 
For  I  tried  to  go,  and  I  would  have  passed, 
As  the  night  was  come  with  its  dews  at  last, 

And  the  skies  with  stars  was  filling. 
But  he  clasped  me  close,  when  I  would  have  fled, 

And  he  made  me  hear  his  story, 
And  his  soul  came  out  from  his  lips,  and  said  — 
How  the  stars  crept  out,  when  the  white  moon  led, 
To  listen  to  all  that  my  lover  said. 

Oh,  the  moon  and  the  stars  in  glory ! 

I  know  that  the  grass  and  the  leaves  will  not  tell, 

And  I  'm  sure  that  the  wind,  precious  rover, 
Will  carry  his  secret  so  safely  and  well 

That  no  being  shall  ever  discover 
One  word  of  the  many  that  rapidly  fell 

From  the  eager  lips  of  my  lover. 

And  the  moon  and  the  stars  that  looked  over 
Shall  never  reveal  what  a  fairy-like  spell 
They  wove  round  about  us  that  night  in  the  dell, 

In  the  path  through  the  dew-laden  clover ; 
Nor  echo  the  whispers  that  made  my  heart  swell 

As  they  fell  from  the  lips  of  my  lover. 

HOMER  GREENE 


LOVE'S  TRANSFIGURATION. 

O  STRANGE  sweet  loveliness !     O  tender  grace, 

That  in  the  light  of  passion's  dayspring  threw 
Soft  splendor  on  a  fair  familiar  face, 

Changing  it,  yet  unchanged  and  old,  yet  new! 
Perfect  the  portrait  in  my  heart,  and  true, 

Which  traced  the  smile  about  the  flower-like  mouth, 
And  those  gray  eyes  with  just  a  doubt  of  blue, 

Yet  darkened  with  the  passion  of  the  South. 
And  the  white  arch  of  thoughtful  forehead  crowned 
With  meeting  waves  of  hair ;  — but  still  I  found 
Some  undreamt  light  of  tenderness  that  fell 

From  the  new  dawn,  and  made  more  fair  to  see 
What  was  so  fair,  that  now  no  song  can  tell 

How  lovely  seemed  thy  love-lit  face  to  me. 
Chambers 's  Journal. 


I28  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

LOVE'S   BELIEF. 


I  BELIEVE  if  I  should  die, 
And  you  should  kiss  my  eyelids  where  I  lie 
Cold,  dead,  and  dumb  to  all  the  world  contains, 
The  folded  orbs  would  open  at  thy  breath, 
And,  from  its  exile  in  the  Isles  of  Death, 
Life  would  come  gladly  back  along  my  veins. 


I  believe  if  I  were  dead, 

And  you  upon  my  lifeless  heart  should  tread,  — 

Not  knowing  what  the  poor  clod  chanced  to  be,  — 

It  would  find  sudden  pulse  beneath  the  touch 

Of  him  it  ever  loved  in  life  so  much, 

And  throb  again,  warm,  tender,  true  to  thee. 

in. 

I  believe  if  in  my  grave, 
Hidden  in  woody  deeps  all  by  the  wave, 
Your  eyes  should  drop  some  warm  tears  of  regret, 
From  every  salty  seed  of  your  deep  grief 
Some  fair,  sweet  blossom  would  leap  into  leaf, 
To  prove  that  death  could  not  make  my  love  forget. 


I  believe  if  I  should  fade 

Into  that  realm  where  light  is  made, 

And  you  should  long  once  more  my  face  to  see, 

I  would  come  forth  upon  the  hills  of  night 

And  gather  stars  like  fagots,  till  thy  sight, 

Fed  by  the  beacon-blaze,  fell  full  on  me. 

I  believe  my  love  for  thee 

(Strong  as  my  life)  so  nobly  placed  to  be, 

It  could  as  soon  expect  to  see  the  sun 

Fall  like  a  dead  king  from  his  heights  sublime, 

His  glory  stricken  from  the  throne  of  time, 

As  thee  unworthy  the  worship  thou  hast  won. 

v. 

I  believe  who  has  not  loved 

Hath  half  the  treasure  of  his  life  unproved, 

Like  one  who,  with  the  grape  within  his  grasp, 

Drops  it,  with  all  its  crimson  juice  unpressed, 

And  all  its  luscious  sweetness  left  unguessed, 

Out  of  his  careless  and  unheeding  grasp. 

I  believe  love,  pure  and  true, 

Is  to  the  soul  a  sweet,  immortal  dew 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,   AND  FRIENDSHIP.       129 

That  gems  life's  petals  in  the  hour  of  dusk; 
The  waiting  angels  see  and  recognize 
The  rich  crown-jewel  love  of  Paradise, 
When  life  falls  from  us  like  a  withered  husk. 


LIGHT  AND   LOVE. 

IF  light  should  strike  through  every  darkened  place, 

How  many  a  deed  of  darkness  and  of  shame 
Would  cease,  arrested  by  its  gentle  grace, 

And  striving  virtue  rise,  unscathed  by  blame  ! 

The  prisoner  in  his  cell  new  hopes  would  frame, 
The  miner  catch  the  metal's  lurking  trace, 
The  sage  would  grasp  the  ills  that  harm  our  race, 

And  unknown  heroes  leap  to  sudden  fame. 
If  love  but  one  short  hour  had  perfect  sway, 

How  many  a  rankling  sore  its  touch  would  heal, 
How  many  a  misconception  pass  away, 

And  hearts  long  hardened  learn  at  last  to  feel : 
What  sympathies  would  wake,  what  feuds  decay 
If  perfect  love  might  reign  but  one  short  day  1 
The  Academy. 


FRIEND   OR   FOE? 

PATTER  !  patter !  running  feet ! 
Something  stirring  in  the  street ! 
Does  it  come,  or  does  it  go  ? 
Patter !  patter !     Friend  or  foe  ? 

Love,  the  merry  tricksy  sprite, 
In  my  lantern  sits  to-night. 
Be  it  coming,  friend  or  foe, 
Love  will  "  show  him  up  "  I  know. 

Patter  !  patter !  nearer  still ; 

Shall  I  ?  —  no  —  I  —  yes  —  I  will. 

"  Who  goes  there  ?  "  —  "  It 's  only  me  I ' 

Ah !  my  little  pet  Marie  ! 

Merry,  loving,  fond,  and  fair, 

In  the  dark  I  see  you  there. 

Still  the  sentry  I  will  play : 

"  There 's  a  password,  love,  to  say." 

What !     She  cannot  answer  me  ? 
Has  she  lost  her  tongue,  may  be  ? 
Never  mind,  love  ;  face  full  well 
Tells  what  lips  refuse  to  tell ! 
9 


130  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Passwords,  questions,  little  one, 
We  can  quite  well  leave  alone. 
Other  folks  than  we,  I  know, 
Shall  solve  our  riddle  :  Friend  or  foe  ? 

F.  E.  WEATHERLY, 


LOVE'S  LOGIC. 
I.    HER  RESPECTABLE  PAPA'S. 

"  MY  dear,  be  sensible  !     Upon  my  word 
This  —  for  a  woman  even  —  is  absurd ; 
His  income  's  not  a  hundred  pounds,  I  know. 
He 's  not  worth  loving."  —  "  But  I  love  him  so." 

II.    HER  MOTHER'S. 

"  You  silly  child,  he  is  well  made  and  tall ; 
But  looks  are  far  from  being  all  in  all. 
His  social  standing  's  low,  his  family  's  low. 
He  's  not  worth  loving."  —  "  And  I  love  him  so." 

III.    HER  ETERNAL  FRIEND'S. 

"  Is  that  he  picking  up  the  fallen  fan  ? 

My  dear  !  he 's  such  an  awkward,  ugly  man  ! 

You  must  be  certain,  pet,  to  answer  '  No.' 

He 's  not  worth  loving."  —  "  And  I  love  him  so." 

IV.    HER  BROTHER'S. 

"  By  Jove  !  were  I  a  girl  —  through  horrid  hap  — 

I  would  n't  have  a  milk-and-water  chap. 

The  man  has  not  a  single  spark  of  '  go/ 

He  's  not  worth  loving/'  —  "  Yet  I  love  him  so." 

V.    HER  OWN. 

"  And  were  he  everything  to  which  I  've  listened : 
Though  he  were  ugly,  awkward  (and  he  is  n't), 
Poor,  low-born,  and  destitute  of  *  go/ 
He  is  worth  loving,  for  I  love  him  so." 
Chambers' s  Journal. 


"  YES." 

THEY  stood  above  the  world, 

In  a  world  apart ; 
And  she  drooped  her  happy  eyes, 
And  stilled  the  throbbing  pulses 

Of  her  happy  heart. 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       131 

And  the  moonlight  fell  above  her, 
Her  secret  to  discover ; 

And  the  moonbeams  kissed  her  hair, 
As  though  no  human  lover 

Had  laid  his  kisses  there. 

"  Look  up,  brown  eyes,"  he  said, 

"  And  answer  mine ; 
Lift  up  those  silken  fringes 
That  hide  a  happy  light 

Almost  divine. 

The  jealous  moonlight  drifted 
To  the  finger  half  uplifted. 

Where  shone  the  opal  ring  — 
Where  the  colors  danced  and  shifted 

On  the  pretty,  changeful  thing. 

Just  the  old,  old  story 

Of  light  and  shade, 
Love  like  the  opal  tender, 
Like  it  may  be  to  vary  — 

May  be  to  fade. 

Just  the  old  tender  story, 
ust  a  glimpse  of  morning  glory 

In  an  earthly  Paradise, 
With  shadowy  reflections 
In  a  pair  of  sweet  brown  eyes. 

Brown  eyes  a  man  might  well 

Be  proud  to  win  ! 
Open  to  hold  his  image, 
Shut  under  silken  lashes, 

Only  to  shut  him  in. 
O  glad  eyes,  look  together, 
For  life's  dark,  stormy  weather 

Grows  to  a  fairer  thing 
When  young  eyes  look  upon  it 

Through  a  slender  wedding  ring. 

R.  D.  BLACKMORE. 


REUNITED   LOVE. 

"  I  DREAMED  that  we  were  lovers  still, 

As  tender  as  we  used  to  be 
When  I  brought  you  the  daffodil, 

And  you  looked  up  and  smiled  at  me." 

"  True  sweethearts  were  we  then,  indeed, 
When  youth  was  budding  into  bloom; 

And  now  the  flowers  are  gone  to  seed, 
And  breezes  have  left  no  perfume." 


132  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"  Because  you  ever,  ever  will 
Take  such  a  crooked  view  of  things, 

Distorting  this  and  that,  until 
Confusion  ends  in  cavillings." 

"  Because  you  never,  never  will 

Perceive  the  force  of  what  I  say ; 
As  if  I  always  reasoned  ill  — 

Enough  to  take  one 's  breath  away !  * 

"  But  what  if  riper  love  replace 

The  vision  that  enchanted  me, 
When  all  you  did  was  perfect  grace, 

And  all  you  said  was  melody  ?  " 

"  And  what  if  loyal  heart  renew 

The  image  never  quite  foregone, 
Combining,  as  of  yore,  in  you 

A  Samson  and  a  Solomon  ?  " 

"  Then  to  the  breezes  will  I  toss 
The  straws  we  split  with  temper's  loss; 
Then  seal  upon  your  lips  anew 
The  peace  that  gentle  hearts  ensue." 

"  Oh,  welcome  then,  ye  playful  ways, 
And  sunshine  of  the  early  days  ; 
And  banish  to  the  clouds  above 
Dull  reason,  that  bedarkens  love  !  " 
Blackwood.  R.  D.  BLACKMORE. 


THE  SEA'S  LOVE. 

ONCE  in  the  days  of  old, 

In  the  years  of  youth  and  mirth, 
The  Sea  was  a  lover  bright  and  bold, 

And  he  loved  the  golden  Earth. 
The  Sun,  in  his  royal  raiment  clad, 
Loved  her  and  found  her  sweet, 
But  the  Sea  was  content  and  glad 
Only  to  be  at  her  feet. 

Ah !  that  the  bards  should  sing, 

And  wail  for  the  golden  years  ! 
Love  was  and  is  but  an  idle  thing, 
'T  is  but  a  wind  that  veers. 

And  Earth  in  her  beauty  and  pride 
Held  her  lips  to  the  wooing  Sun ; 

He  said,  "  Thou  art  fair,  O  my  bride," 
And  she  sang,  "  I  am  thine  alone." 


LOVE,   SENTIMENT,   AND  FRIENDSHIP.       133 

The  faithful  Sea  at  her  faithless  feet 

Rolled  with  a  broken  moan ; 
"  O  Sun  !  "  he  cried,  "  but  thy  bride  is  sweet, 

And  I  am  alone,  alone  !  " 
Ah !  that  the  bards,  etc. 

Oft  would  the  Sun  depart, 

And  his  bride  in  her  gloom  made  moan, 
And  the  Sea  would  cry  that  her  loving  heart 

Should  be  left  to  pine  alone. 
And  his  voice  is  strange  and  sad  and  sweet, 

"  O  love,  not  mine  !  not  mine  ! 
I  am  content  to  lie  at  thy  feet, 

And  love  thee  in  storm  and  shine." 
Ah  !  that  the  bards  should  sing, 

And  wail  for  the  golden  years  ! 
Love  was  and  is  but  an  idle  thing, 
'T  is  but  a  wind  that  veers. 

F.  E.  WEATHERLY. 


INDECISION. 

Do  I  love  her  ? 

Dimpling  red  lips  at  me  pouting, 
Dimpling  shoulders  at  me  flouting ; 

No,  I  don't ! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 
Prisoned  in  those  crystal  eyes 
Purity  forever  lies ; 

Yes,  I  do ! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 
Little  wild  and  wilful  fiction, 
Teasing,  torturing  contradiction ; 

No,  I  don't ! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 

With  kind  acts  and  sweet  words  she 
Aids  and  comforts  poverty ; 

Yes,  I  do  ! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 
Quick  she  puts  her  cuirass  on, 
Stabs  with  laughter,  stings  with  scorn ; 

No,  I  don't ! 

Do  I  love  her  ? 

No  !    Then  to  my  arms  she  flies, 
Filling  me  with  glad  surprise ; 

Ah,  yes,  I  do ! 


134  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


FRENCH   WITH   A   MASTER. 

A  liner)  aimer  ;  c'est  h  vivre. 
("To  love,  to  love;  this  it  is  to  live.") 

TEACH  you  French  ?     I  will,  my  dear  \ 
Sit  and  con  your  lesson  here. 
What  did  Adam  say  to  Eve  ? 
Aimer )  aimer  ;  Jest  &  vivre. 

Don't  pronounce  the  last  word  long ; 
Make  it  short  to  suit  the  song ; 
Rhyme  it  to  your  flowing  sleeve, 
Aimer  >  aimer  ;  Jest  a  vivre. 

Sleeve,  I  said,  but  what  \s  the  harm 
If  I  really  meant  your  arm  ? 
Mine  shall  twine  it  (by  your  leave), 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  Jest  a  vivre. 

Learning  French  is  full  of  slips ; 
Do  as  I  do  with  the  lips ; 
Here  's  the  right  way,  you  perceive, 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  Jest  a  vivre. 

French  is  always  spoken  best 
Breathing  deeply  from  the  chest ; 
Darling,  does  your  bosom  heave  ? 
Aimer \  aimer  ;  Jest  cl  vivre. 

Now,  my  dainty  little  sprite, 
Have  I  taught  your  lesson  right  ? 
Then  what  pay  shall  I  receive  ? 
Aimer y  aimer  ;  Jest  a  vivre. 

Will  you  think  me  overbold 
If  I  linger  to  be  told 
Whether  you  yourself  believe 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  Jest  a  vivre  ? 

Pretty  pupil,  when  you  say 
All  this  French  to  me  to-day, 
Do  you  mean  it,  or  deceive  ? 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  Jest  a  vivre. 

Tell  me,  may  I  understand, 
When  I  press  your  little  hand, 
That  our  hearts  together  cleave  ? 
Aimer )  aimer ;  Jest  a  vivre. 

Have  you  in  your  tresses  room 
For  some  orange-buds  to  bloom  ? 
May  I  such  a  garland  weave  ? 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  Jest  a  vivre. 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       135 

Or,  if  I  presume  too  much, 
Teaching  French  by  sense  of  touch, 
Grant  me  pardon  and  reprieve  ! 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  c*est  a  vivre. 

Sweetheart,  no  !  you  cannot  go  ' 
Let  me  sit  and  hold  you  so ; 
Adam  did  the  same  to  Eve,  — 
Aimer,  aimer  ;  c'est  a  vivre. 

THEODORE  TILTON. 

NOTE.  —  This  dainty  little  love-poem  was  read  by  the  Hon.  William  M. 
Evarts  to  the  jury  in  the  celebrated  Beech er-Tilton  case.  The  poem  and 
its  reading  was  received  with  the  warmest  applause,  in  which  court,  counsel, 
and  spectators  joined.  Even  the  weary  jury  could  not  forbear  to  smile. 


AFEARED   OF   A  GAL. 

OH,  darn  it  all !  —  afeared  of  her, 

And  such  a  mite  of  a  gal  ; 
Why,  two  of  her  size  rolled  into  one 

Won't  ditto  sister  Sal ! 
Her  voice  is  sweet  as  the  whippoorwill's, 

And  the  sunshine  's  in  her  hair  ; 
But  I  'd  rather  face  a  redskin's  knife, 

Or  the  grip  of  a  grizzly  bear. 
Yet  Sal  says,  "  Why,  she  's  such  a  dear, 

She  's  just  the  one  for  you." 
Oh,  darn  it  all !  —  afeared  of  a  gal, 

And  me  just  six  feet  two  ! 

Though  she  ain't  any  size,  while  I  'm 

Considerable  tall, 
I  'm  nowhere  when  she  speaks  to  me, 

She  makes  me  feel  so  small. 
My  face  grows  red,  my  tongue  gets  hitched, 

The  cussed  thing  won't  go  ; 
It  riles  me,  'cause  it  makes  her  think 

I  'm  most  tarnation  slow. 
And  though  folks  say  she  's  sweet  on  me, 

I  guess  it  can't  be  true. 
Oh,  darn  it  all !  —  afeared  of  a  gal, 

And  me  just  six  feet  two  ! 

My  sakes  !  just  s'pose  if  what  the  folks 

Is  saying  should  be  so ! 
Go,  Cousin  Jane,  and  speak  to  her, 

Find  out  and  let  me  know  ; 
Tell  her  the  gals  should  court  the  men, 

For  is  n't  this  leap-year  ? 
That 's  why  I  'm  kind  of  bashful  like, 

A  waiting  for  her  here. 


136  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  should  she  hear  I  'm  scared  of  her. 
You  '11  swear  it  can't  be  true. 

Oh,  darn  it  all !  —  afeared  of  a  gal, 
And  me  just  six  feet  two  ! 


A  CONCEIT. 

OH,  touch  that  rosebud !  it  will  bloom  — 

My  lady  fair ! 

A  passionate  red  in  dim  green  gloom, 
A  joy,  a  splendor,  a  perfume 

That  sleeps  in  air. 

You  touched  my  heart ;  it  gave  a  thrill 

Just  like  a  rose 
That  opens  at  a  lady's  will ; 
Its  bloom  is  always  yours,  until 

You  bid  it  close. 

MORTIMER  COLLINS. 


L'ENVOY. 

DRAW  down  thy  curtains  close,  O  heart ! 
Shut  out  the  rays  that,  beaming  bright, 

Reveal  my  darkening  sorrow  ; 
Our  paths  diverge,  our  paths  now  part, 
And  mine  drifts  out  into  the  night  — 

A  night  without  a  morrow. 

I,  dreaming,  waited  long  and  loved, 
Nor  spoke  one  word  of  germed  fire ; 

Deep  hidden,  slept  my  passion  ; 
While,  side  by  side,  we  onward  moved, 
Calm  friendship  yours,  mine,  fond  desire  — 

Love  met  with  cold  compassion. 

Now,  merry,  merry  clash  the  bells  ; 
Bring  sheeny  robes  and  ivy  leaf  ; 

Bring  crown  of  orange-flowers  : 
He  in  thy  smile  forever  dwells, 
While  I  drift  on  through  clouds  of  grief, 

Gold  fringed  with  happy  bygone  hours. 

Love,  Love,  farewell ;  and  ne'er  again, 
In  all  the  drear  and  empty  realm 

That  bounds  my  heart  so  weary, 
Shall  Love  rebuild  to  him  a  fane ; 
And  loveless,  drifting  without  helm, 

My  life  will  float,  so  dreary. 

RANDOLPH. 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       137 


THE  MILLER  AND   THE   MAID. 


ACROSS  the  heath  and  down  the  hill, 

Aback  of  patient  Dobbin, 
The  farmer's  daughter  rides  to  mill, 

And  mocks  the  thrush  and  robin. 

For  saddle  she 's  a  sack  of  grain, 

She  sidewise  sits  and  chirrups ; 
A  finger  in  old  Dobbin's  mane 

Is  good  as  forty  stirrups. 

The  miller  comes  —  a  merry  blade  !  — 

And  doffs  his  hat  and  greets  her  : 
"  What  wish  you  here,  my  pretty  maid  ?  " 

"  I  've  brought  a  sack  of  wheat,  sir." 

"  And  have  you  gold  to  give  for  grist  ?  " 

"  Not  I,  we  're  poor,  alack  !  sir ; 
But  take  your  toll  —  a  tenth,  I  wist  — 

From  what  is  in  my  sack,  sir." 

He  lifts  her  lightly  from  her  seat, 

And  laughs  —  a  merry  miller ! 
"  I  cannot  take  my  toll  in  wheat, 

I  must  have  gold  or  siller. 

"  But  since  you  've  brought  nor  coin  nor  scrip," 

He  smiles  and  fondly  eyes  her  — 
u  I  '11  ask  no  toll  but  from  your  lip  — 

One  kiss !  who  '11  be  the  wiser  ? " 

The  maiden  blushed  and  bowed  her  head, 

And  with  her  apron  fingered, 
And  pouted  out  her  lips  of  red 

Where  countless  kisses  lingered. 

"  A  single  kiss  ? "     (She  smiled  in  glee, 
As  who  would  say,  "  I  Ve  caught  you.") 

"  My  father  said  your  toll  would  be 
A  tenth  of  what  I  brought  you." 

The  mill-stream  shouted  to  the  sands  : 

"  He  kissed  the  farmer's  daughter  !  " 
But  the  grim  old  wheel  stretched  out  its  hands 

And  spanked  the  saucy  water. 

F.  N.  SCOTT. 


138  THE  HUMBLER  PORTS. 


A   KISS   IN  THE  RAIN. 

ONE  stormy  morn  I  chanced  to  meet 

A  lassie  in  the  town  ; 
Her  locks  were  like  the  ripened  wheat, 

Her  laughing  eyes  were  brown. 
I  watched  her,  as  she  tripped  along, 

Till  madness  filled  my  brain, 
And  then  —  and  then  —  I  knew  't  was  wrong  - 

I  kissed  her  in  the  rain. 

With  rain-drops  shining  on  her  cheek, 

Like  dew-drops  on  a  rose, 
The  little  lassie  strove  to  speak, 

My  boldness  to  oppose ; 
She  strove  in  vain,  and,  quivering, 

Her  finger  stole  in  mine  ; 
And  then  the  birds  began  to  sing, 

The  sun  began  to  shine. 

Oh,  let  the  clouds  grow  dark  above, 

My  heart  is  light  below  ; 
'T  is  always  summer  when  we  love, 

However  winds  may  blow ; 
And  I  'm  as  proud  as  any  prince, 

All  honors  I  disdain ; 
She  says  I  am  her  rain-beau  since 

I  kissed  her  in  the  rain. 


T£TE-A-T£TE. 


A  BIT  of  ground,  a  smell  of  earth, 
A  pleasant  murmur  in  the  trees, 

The  chirp  of  birds,  an  insect's  hum, 
And,  kneeling  on  their  chubby  knees, 

Two  neighbors'  children  at  their  play ; 

Who  has  not  seen  a  hundred  such  ? 
A  head  of  gold,  a  head  of  brown, 

Bending  together  till  they  touch. 


A  country  school-house  by  the  road, 
A  spicy  scent  of  woods  anear, 

And  all  the  air  with  summer  sounds 
Laden  for  who  may  care  to  hear. 


LOVE,    SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       139 

So  do  not  two,  a  boy  and  girl, 

Who  stay,  when  all  the  rest  are  gone, 

Solving  a  problem  deeper  far 
Than  one  they  seem  intent  upon. 

Dear  hearts,  of  course  they  do  not  know 
How  near  their  heads  together  lean  ; 

The  bee  that  wanders  through  the  room 
Has  hardly  space  to  go  between. 


Now  darker  is  the  head  of  brown, 
The  head  of  gold  is  brighter  now, 

And  lines  of  deeper  thought  and  life 
Are  written  upon  either  brow. 

The  sense  that  thrills  their  being  through 
With  nameless  longings  vast  and  dim 

Has  found  a  voice,  has  found  a  name, 
And  where  he  goes  she  follows  him. 

Again  their  heads  are  bending  near, 
And  bending  down  in  silent  awe 

Above  a  morsel  pure  and  sweet, 
A  miracle  of  love  and  law. 

How  often  shall  their  heads  be  bowed 
With  joy  or  grief,  with  love  and  pride, 

As  waxeth  strong  that  feeble  life, 
Or  slowly  ebbs  its  falling  tide  I 

IV. 

A  seaward  hill  where  lie  the  dead 
In  dreamless  slumber  deep  and  calm ; 

Above  their  graves  the  roses  bloom, 
And  all  the  air  is  full  of  balm. 

They  do  not  smell  the  roses  sweet ; 

They  do  not  see  the  ships  that  go 
Along  the  far  horizon's  edge  ; 

They  do  not  feel  the  breezes  blow. 

Here  loving  hands  have  gently  laid 
The  neighbors'  children,  girl  and  boy 

And  man  and  wife  ;  head  close  to  head 

They  sleep,  and  know  nor  pain  nor  joy. 
Christian  Union. 


140  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


WEDDED. 

SOME  quick  and  bitter  words  we  said, 
And  then  we  parted.     How  the  sun 

Swam  through  the  sullen  mist  of  gray  ! 

A  chill  fell  on  the  summer  day, 

Life's  best  and  happiest  hours  were  done  ; 
Friendship  was  dead. 

How  proud  we  went  our  separate  ways, 

And  spake  no  word  and  made  no  moan ! 
She  braided  up  her  flowing  hair, 
That  I  had  always  called  so  fair, 
Although  she  scorned  my  loving  tone, 
My  word  of  praise. 

And  I !     I  matched  her  scorn  with  scorn, 

I  hated  her  with  all  my  heart, 
Until  —  we  chanced  to  meet  one  day ; 
She  turned  her  pretty  head  away ; 
I  saw  two  pretty  tear-drops  start, 

Lo  !  love  was  born. 

Some  fond,,  repenting  word  I  said, 
She  answered  only  with  a  sigh  ; 

But  when  I  took  her  hand  in  mine 

A  radiant  glory,  half  divine, 

Flooded  the  earth  and  filled  the  sky  — 
Now  we  are  wed. 


MUSIC   IN  THE  SOUL. 

OVER  my  soul  the  great  thoughts  roll 

Like  the  waves  of  a  mighty  sea  ; 

But  clear  through  the  rushing  and  surging  there  sounds 
A  wonderful  music  to  me. 

So  sweet,  so  low,  the  harmonies  flow ; 

They  rise  and  they  fall,  they  come  and  they  go ; 

Wonderful,  beautiful,  soft,  and  slow. 

Not  here,  not  there,  not  in  this  calm  air, 

Nor  born  of  the  silver  sea ; 
Immortal  —  beyond  all  the  music  of  man  — 
It  is  love  that  is  singing  to  me. 

So  sweet,  so  low,  the  harmonies  flow ; 

They  rise  and  they  fall,  they  come  and  they  go ; 

Wonderful,  beautiful,  soft,  and  slow. 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       141 

Not  mine  alone  this  melting  tone  — 
The  soul  of  it  comes  from  thee  — 
For  thou  in  thy  bosom  art  singing  of  love, 
And  the  music  flows  over  to  me. 

So  sweet,  so  low,  the  harmonies  flow ; 

They  rise  and  they  fall,  they  come  and  they  go ; 

Wonderful,  beautiful,  soft,  and  slow. 


YES? 

Is  it  true,  then,  my  girl  ?  did  you  mean  it  — 

The  word  spoken  yesterday  night  ? 
Does  that  hour  seem  so  sweet  now  between  it 

And  this  has  come  day's  sober  light  ? 
Have  you  woke  from  a  moment  of  rapture 

To  remember,  regret,  and  repent, 
And  to  hate,  perchance,  him  who  has  trapped  your 

Unthinking  consent  ? 

Who  was  he,  last  evening  —  this  fellow 

Whose  audacity  lent  him  a  charm  ? 
Have  you  promised  to  wed  Punchinello  ? 

For  life  taken  Figaro's  arm  ? 
Will  you  have  the  Court  fool  of  the  papers, 

The  clown  in  the  journalist's  ring, 
Who  earns  his  scant  bread  by  his  capers, 

To  be  your  heart's  king  ? 

A  Modoc  —  a  Malay  —  a  Kaffir 

("  Bohemian  "  puts  it  too  mild) ; 
By  profession  a  poor  paragrapher, 

Light  Laughter's  unrecognized  child ; 
At  the  best  but  a  Brummagem  poet, 

Inspired  of  tobacco  and  beer, 
Altogether  off  color  —  I  know  it ; 

I  'm  all  that,  my  dear. 

When  we  met  quite  by  chance  at  the  theatre, 

And  I  saw  you  home  under  the  moon, 
I  'd  no  thought,  love,  that  mischief  would  be  at  her 

Tricks  with  my  tongue  quite  so  soon ; 
That  I  should  forget  fate  and  fortune, 

Make  a  difference  'twixt  Sevres  and  delf ; 
That  I  'd  have  the  calm  nerve  to  importune 

You,  sweet,  for  yourself. 

It 's  appalling,  by  Jove,  the  audacious 

Effrontery  of  that  request ! 
But  you  —  you  grew  suddenly  gracious, 

And  hid  your  sweet  face  on  my  breast. 


142  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Why  you  did  it  I  cannot  conjecture ; 

I  surprised  you,  poor  child,  I  dare  say, 
Or  perhaps  —  does  the  moonlight  affect  your 

Head  often  that  way  ? 

It  was  glorious  for  me,  but  what  pleasure 

Could  you  find  in  such  wooing  as  this  ? 
Were  my  arms  not  too  ursine  in  pressure, 

Was  no  flavor  of  clove  in  my  kiss  ? 
Ah,  your  lips  I  profaned  when  I  made  with 

Their  dainty  divinity  free,  — 
Twin  loves  never  meant  to  be  played  with 

By  fellows  like  me. 

You  're  released  !     With  some  wooer  replace  me 

More  worthy  to  be  your  life's  light ; 
From  the  tablet  of  memory  efface  me, 

If  you  don't  mean  your  "  yes  "  of  last  night. 
But  unless  you  are  anxious  to  see  me  a 

Wreck  of  the  pipe  and  the  cup 
In  my  birthplace  and  graveyard,  Bohemia  — 

Love,  don't  give  me  up. 
Puck.  H.  C.  BUNNER. 


YES! 

"  Is  it  true  ? "  —  that 's  the  doubtful  suggestion 

I  've  made  to  myself  ever  since  ; 
Did  I  misinterpret  your  question  ? 

Is  joy,  then,  so  hard  to  convince  ? 
"  Is  it  true  ? "     For  my  part,  yes,  completely, 

And,  if  I  may  answer  for  you, 
I  '11  add  it  is  wondrously,  sweetly, 

Entrancingly  true. 

Oh,  dear,  if  I  make  a  confession, 

You  '11  admit  you  have  tempted  it  forth  ; 
If  I  own  you  have  long  had  possession, 

You  '11  not  deem  the  prize  of  less  worth  ? 
If  I  say  that  a  lifetime  of  pleasure 

Last  evening  was  brimmed  in  my  cup, 
And  that  you  poured  the  liberal  measure, 

You  won't  give  me  up  ? 

Ere  ever  I  saw  you  I  knew  you, 

I  watched  for  your  song  and  your  jest, 
And  fancy  in  bright  colors  drew  you 

My  hero,  my  Bayard,  my  best. 
Nor  was  it  mere  fancy  anointed 

Yourself  as  my  bosom's  high  priest ; 
When  we  met  I  was  not  disappointed  — 

No,  love,  not  the  least. 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       143 

Last  night !  —  and  I  'm  owning  already 

The  secrets  of  nearly  a  year. 
They  tell  me  you  're  fast,  scarcely  steady, 

In  short,  a  Bohemian,  dear. 
Well,  those  are  not  faults  that  need  hurt  you ; 

They  '11  do  to  pair  off  with  my  own  — 
You  have  all  a  Bohemian's  virtue, 

The  rest  I  condone. 

But  I  —  how  was  I  ever  worthy 

Of  winning  so  precious  a  prize  ? 
My  thoughts,  dear,  are  of  the  earth,  earthy, 

While  yours  soar  away  to  the  skies. 
If  all  that  you  hint  at  were  real,  — 

The  jest,  the  despite,  and  the  fleer, 
The  world  could  not  dim  my  ideal, 

Nor  make  you  less  dear. 

So,  darling,  though  you  are  above  me 

In  intellect,  knowledge,  and  worth, 

Sufficient  for  me  that  you  love  me,  — 

I  '11  follow  you  over  the  earth. 
Sufficient  for  me  that  you  deem  me  a 

Soul  not  unworthy  to  sup 
The  joys  of  your  wondrous  Bohemia  — 
I  can't  give  you  up. 

GEORGE  H.  JESSOP. 

Written  for  the  San  Francisco  Bohemian  Clubt 
as  a  reply  to  BunneSs  "  Yes  ?  " 


ANTONY    AND    CLEOPATRA. 

I  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying ! 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast. 
Let  thine  arm,  O  Queen,  support  me ; 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear ! 
Hearken  to  the  great  heart  secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Rear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore  ; 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Roman  — 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still  1 


144  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
*T  was  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him ; 

'Twas  his  own  that  dealt  the  blow  — 
His,  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray  — 
His,  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  fame  in  Rome, 
Where  my  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, 
Seek  her  !     Say  the  gods  have  told  me  — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings  — 
That  her  blood  with  mine  commingled 

Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings ! 

As  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian  ! 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile  ! 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile. 
Give  to  Caesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine, 
I  can  scorn  the  Senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  ! 

Hark  !  the  insulting  foeman's  cry ! 
They  are  coming !     Quick,  my  falchion ! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah  !  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell ; 
Isis  and  Osiris  guard  thee  — 

Cleopatra  —  Rome  —  farewell. 

GEN.  WILLIAM  H.  LYTLE. 


CLEOPATRA  TO  ANTONY. 

SPREAD  a  feast  with  choicest  viands  — 

Friends,  't  will  be  my  very  last ; 
Bring  the  rarest  flowers  to  grace  it  — 

Haste,  my  sands  of  life  flow  fast ; 
Place  an  asp  beneath  the  lotus 

That  shall  light  me  to  the  grave 
With  its  starry  petals'  splendor ; 

Weep  not,  let  your  hearts  be  brave. 

Speed,  Octavia,  with  thy  minions  — 
Fire  thy  heart  with  deadly  hate  I 

Thou  wilt  miss  the  royal  victim  — 
Cleopatra  rules  her  fate  ! 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       145 

She  defies  Rome's  conquering  legions  1 

Let  them  triumph  in  her  fall  ! 
What  is  earthly  pomp  or  greatness  ?  — 

Love,  thy  love  outweighs  it  all ! 

Thrones  and  sceptres  are  but  trifles 

To  my  spirit's  yearning  pain ; 
What  were  fortune's  gifts  without  thee 

I  would  lose  the  world  to  gain  ? 
Let  no  base  heart  tell  our  story  ; 

Ages,  speak,  when  time  unurns 
These  dull  ashes,  say  to  Ages, 

Soul  to  soul  their  love  still  burns. 

Fatal  asp,  thy  sleep 's  not  endless, 

That  the  morrow's  dawn  will  prove  ; 
I  shall  reign  in  lands  elysian, 

Antony's  proud  Queen  of  Love ! 
Isis  and  Osiris,  hear  me ! 

Hear  me,  gods  of  boundless  power  J 
Ye  have  tasted  deathless  passion  ! 

Ye  will  guide  me  to  his  bower ! 

Pardon,  mighty  ones,  the  error 

If  Octavia  I  have  wronged, 
Judged  by  higher  laws  supernal ; 

Ah  !  how  earthly  passions  thronged. 
Overpowering  heart  and  reason, 

Nature,  answering  Nature's  call, 
Rushed  as  cloud  responsive  rushes 

On  to  cloud,  to  meet  and  —  fall. 

Antony,  my  love,  I  'm  dying  ! 

Curdles  fast  life's  crimson  tide, 
But  no  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Fall  between  us  to  divide. 
Hark  !  the  Stygian  waters  swelling, 

Call  me,  love,  with  thee  to  rest,  — 
Death  I  fear  not  since  thou  braved  it, 

Pillowed  on  my  aching  breast. 

Strange  emotions  fill  my  bosom 

As  I  near  the  vast  unknown  ; 
Yet  my  heart  still  throbs  in  dying, 

Antony,  for  thee  alone. 
Oh  !  "  I  feel  immortal  longings,"  — 

I  can  brave  stern  Pluto's  frown,  — 
Robe  me  in  my  regal  garments, 

Deck  with  jewels,  sceptre,  crown. 

Antony  !  I  'm  coming  !  coming  ! 

Open,  open  wide  thine  arms ! 
Ah !  the  blissful  hope  of  union 

Robs  the  grave  of  its  alarms. 


146  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

See  I  the  glorious  heroes  beckon 

O'er  the  Stygian  water's  swell. 
I  shall  have  immortal  crowning  ! 

Egypt  —  dear  old  Nile  !  —  farewell. 

SARAH  DOUDNEY. 


CLEOPATRA'S   SOLILOQUY. 

WHAT  care  I  for  the  tempest  ?    What  care  I  for  the  rain  ? 
If  it  beat  upon  my  bosom,  would  it  cool  its  burning  pain,  — 
This  pain  that  ne'er  has  left  me  since  on  his  heart  I  lay, 
And  sobbed  my  grief  at  parting  as  I  'd  sob  my  soul  away  ? 

0  Antony !  Antony  !  Antony  !  when  in  thy  circling  arms 
Shall  I  sacrifice  to  Eros  my  glorious  woman's  charms, 
And  burn  life's  sweetest  incense  before  his  sacred  shrine, 
With  the  living  fire  that  flashes  from  thine  eyes  into  mine  ? 
Oh,  when  shall  I  feel  thy  kisses  rain  down  upon  my  face, 
As  a  queen  of  love  and  beauty  I  lie  in  thine  embrace, 
Melting,  melting^  melting,  as  a  woman  only  can 

When  she  's  a  willing  captive  in  the  conquering  arms  of  man, 
As  he  towers  a  god  above  her  —  and  to  yield  is  not  defeat, 
For  love  can  own  no  victor  if  love  with  love  shall  meet ! 

1  still  have  regal  splendor,  I  still  have  queenly  power, 
And,  more  than  all,  unfaded  is  woman's  glorious  dower. 
But  what  care  I  for  pleasure  ?  what 's  beauty  to  me  now, 
Since  Love  no  longer  places  his  crown  upon  my  brow  ? 

I  have  tasted  its  elixir,  its  fire  has  through  me  flashed, 

But  when  the  wine  glowed  brightest,  from  my  eager  lips  *t  was 

dashed. 

And  I  would  give  all  Egypt  but  once  to  feel  the  bliss 
Which  thrills  through  all  my  being  whene'er  I  meet  his  kiss. 
The  tempest  wildly  rages,  my  hair  is  wet  with  rain, 
But  it  does  not  still  my  longing  or  cool  my  burning  pain. 
For  Nature's  storms  are  nothing  to  the  raging  of  my  soul 
When  it  burns  with  jealous  frenzy  beyond  a  queen's  control. 
I  fear  not  pale  Octavia,  that  haughty  Roman  dame, 
My  lion  of  the  desert,  my  Antony,  can  tame. 
I  fear  no  Persian  beauty,  I  fear  no  Grecian  maid ; 
The  world  holds  not  the  woman  of  whom  I  am  afraid. 
But  I  'm  jealous  of  the  rapture  I  tasted  in  his  kiss, 
And  I  would  not  that  another  should  share  with  me  that  bliss. 
No  joy  would  I  deny  him,  let  him  cull  it  where  he  will, 
So  mistress  of  his  bosom  is  Cleopatra  still ; 
So  that  he  feels  forever,  when  he  Love's  nectar  sips, 
'T  was  sweeter,  sweeter,  sweeter  when  tasted  on  my  lips ; 
So  that  all  other  kisses,  since  he  has  drawn  in  mine, 
Shall  be  unto  my  loved  as  "  water  after  wine." 
Awhile  let  Caesar  fancy  Octavia's  pallid  charms 
Can  hold  Rome's  proudest  consul  a  captive  from  these  arms. 
Her  cold  embrace  but  brightens  the  memory  of  mine, 
And  for  my  warm  caresses  he  in  her  arms  shall  pine. 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       147 

*Twas  not  for  love  he  sought  her,  but  for  her  princely  dower; 
She  brought  him  Caesar's  friendship,  she  brought  him  kingly 

power. 

I  should  have  bid  him  take  her,  had  he  my  counsel  sought,  — 
I  've  but  to  smile  upon  him,  and  all  her  charms  are  nought ; 
For  I  would  scorn  to  hold  him  by  but  a  single  hair 
Save  his  own  longing  for  me  when  I  'm  no  longer  there  ; 
And  I  will  show  you,  Roman,  that  for  one  kiss  from  me 
Wife,  fame,  and  even  honor  to  him  shall  nothing  be  ! 

Throw  wide  the  window,  Isis,  fling  perfumes  o'er  me  now, 

And  bind  the  lotus-blossoms  again  upon  my  brow. 

The  rain  has  ceased  its  weeping,  the  driving  storm  is  past, 

And  calm  are  Nature's  pulses  that  lately  beat  so  fast. 

Gone  is  my  jealous  frenzy,  and  Eros  reigns  serene, 

The  only  god  e'er  worshipped  by  Egypt  s  haughty  queen. 

With  Antony,  my  loved,  I  '11  kneel  before  his  shrine 

Till  the  loves  of  Mars  and  Venus  are  nought  to  his  and  mine ; 

And  down  through  coming  ages,  in  every  land  and  tongue, 

With  them  shall  Cleopatra  and  Antony  be  sung. 

Burn  sandal-wood  and  cassia;  let  the  vapor  round  me  wreathe, 

And  mingle  with  the  incense  the  lotus-blossoms  breathe ; 

Let  India's  spicy  odors  and  Persia's  perfumes  rare 

Be  wafted  on  the  pinions  of  Egypt's  fragrant  air. 

With  the  singing  of  the  night  breeze,  the  river's  rippling  flow, 

Let  me  hear  the  notes  of  music  in  cadence  soft  and  low. 

Draw  round  my  couch  its  curtains ;  I  'd  bathe  my  soul  in  sleep; 

I  feel  its  gentle  languor  upon  me  slowly  creep. 

Oh,  let  me  cheat  my  senses  with  dreams  of  future  bliss, 

In  fancy  feel  his  presence,  in  fancy  taste  his  kiss, 

In  fancy  nestle  closely  against  his  throbbing  heart, 

And  throw  my  arms  around  him,  no  more,  no  more  to  part. 

Hush  !  hush  !  his  spirit's  pinions  are  rustling  in  my  ears  ; 

He  comes  upon  the  tempest  to  calm  my  jealous  fears  ; 

He  comes  upon  the  tempest  in  answer  to  my  call,  — 

Wife,  fame,  and  even  honor,  for  me  he  leaves  them  all ; 

And  royally  I  '11  welcome  my  lover  to  my  side. 

I  have  won  him,  I  have  won  him  from  Caesar  and  his  bride. 

The  Galaxy.  MARY  BAYARD  CLARK 


CLEOPATRA'S   DREAM. 

Lo,  by  Nilus'  languid  waters 

Fades  the  dreamy  summer  day, 
Where,  on  couch  of  gold  and  crimson, 

Egypt's  royal  daughter  lay,  — 
Dreaming  lay,  while  palm  and  pillar 

Cast  their  lengthening  shadows  now, 
And  the  lotus-laden  zephyrs 

Lightly  kissed  her  queenly  brow. 


148  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Soft  the  evening  steals  upon  her, 

As  behind  the  curtained  west 
Sinks  the  day-god  in  his  splendor  — 

Folds  his  wooing  arms  to  rest. 
Drowsy  shades  of  dusky  Egypt 

Homeward,  slow,  their  burdens  bear, 
While  the  boatman's  lazy  challenge 

Falls  upon  the  quivering  air. 

Dreams  she  of  her  Roman  lover, 

He  who  cast  a  crown  away, 
Country,  kindred,  fame,  and  honor, 

In  her  captive  arms  to  lay  ? 
Ay !  of  Antony  her  hero, 

Sharer  of  her  heart  and  throne, 
He  whose  ships,  now  homeward  sailing, 

Bear  her  all  of  love  alone. 

Starts  she  in  her  sleeping  glory, 

And  her  brown  arms,  jewelled,  bare, 
Round  and  rich  in  queenly  beauty, 

Wildly  cleave  the  slumberous  air. 
Beads  of  perspiration  gather 

On  her  matchless  woman's  brow, 
While  her  parted  lips  in  anguish 

Tell  of  heart-pangs  none  may  know. 

Sure  some  vision,  dire  and  dreadful, 

Palls  upon  her  eyes  and  brain, 
Piercing  to  her  being's  centre 

With  a  fiery  shaft  of  pain. 
Like  a  sea  her  full-orbed  bosom 

Swells  and  falls  with  pent-up  ire ; 
Then  her  spirit  breaks  its  thraldom, 

And  she  shrieks  in  wild  despair :  — 

"  Charmian,  quick,  unloose  my  girdle, 

Give  me  breath !  I  faint !  I  die  ! 
Ho  !  slaves,  bring  my  royal  galley, 

Let  us  hence  to  Egypt  fly. 
Oh  for  vengeance  on  the  traitor, 

And  upon  his  Roman  bride  ! 
Let  him  never  dare  —  ah,  Charmian, 

Stand  you  closely  by  my  side. 

"  Do  I  dream  ?    Is  this  my  palace  — 

Yon  my  sweetly  flowing  Nile  ? 
Ah,  I  see  —  O  great  Osiris, 

How  I  thank  thee  for  thy  smile ! 
Oh,  I  've  had  such  fearful  vision  — 

He,  my  Antony,  untrue  ; 
And  my  heart  was  nigh  to  bursting 

With  its  fearful  weight  of  woe. 


LOVE,   SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       149 

"  But  't  is  over ;  yet  I  tremble  — 

On  what  brink  of  fate  I  stand ; 
What  prophetic  bird  of  evil 

Hovers  o'er  this  sacred  land  ! 
What  if  true  should  come  my  dreaming, 

And  no  more  my  love  return ! 
Ah,  the  thought  my  heart's  blood  freezes, 

While  my  brain  with  madness  burns." 


Then  she  listened,  gazing  outward 

Toward  a  dim  futurity  — 
And  the  Nile  forever  onward 

Bears  its  burdens  to  the  sea  ; 
And  she  catches  from  its  whispers  — 

Echoing  whispers  in  her  soul  — 
That  her  reign  of  love  is  ended, 

And  her  life  is  near  its  goal. 

J.  J.  OWENS. 


STORY  OF  THE  GATE. 

ACROSS  the  pathway,  myrtle-fringed, 
Under  the  maple,  it  was  hinged  — 

The  little  wooden  gate ; 
'Twas  there  within  the  quiet  gloam, 
When  I  had  strolled  with  Nelly  home, 

I  used  to  pause  and  wait 

Before  I  said  to  her  good-night, 

Yet  loath  to  leave  the  winsome  sprite 

Within  the  garden's  pale ; 
And  there,  the  gate  between  us  two, 
We  'd  linger  as  all  lovers  do, 

And  lean  upon  the  rail. 

And  face  to  face,  eyes  close  to  eyes, 
Hands  meeting  hands  in  feigned  surprise, 

After  a  stealthy  quest,  — 
So  close  I  'd  bend,  ere  she  'd  retreat, 
That  I  'd  grow  drunken  from  the  sweet 

Tuberose  upon  her  breast. 

We'd  talk  —  in  fitful  style,  I  ween  — 
With  many  a  meaning  glance  between 

The  tender  words  and  low ; 
We  'd  whisper  some  dear,  sweet  conceit, 
Some  idle  gossip  we  'd  repeat, 

And  then  I  'd  move  to  go. 


150  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"  Good-night,"  I  'd  say ;  "  good-night  —  good-by  !  " 
"  Good-night  "  —  from  her  with  half  a  sigh  — 

"  Good-night !  "  "  Good-night  1 "     And  then  — 
And  then  I  do  not  go,  but  stand, 
Again  lean  on  the  railing,  and  — 

Begin  it  all  again. 

Ah !  that  was  many  a  day  ago  — 
That  pleasant  summer-time  —  although 

The  gate  is  standing  yet ; 
A  little  cranky,  it  may  be, 
A  little  weather-worn  —  like  me  — 

Who  never  can  forget 

The  happy  —    "  End  "  ?    My  cynic  friend, 
Pray  save  your  sneers  —  there  was  no  "  end." 

Watch  yonder  chubby  thing  ! 
That  is  our  youngest,  hers  and  mine ; 
See  how  he  climbs,  his  legs  to  twine 

About  the  gate  and  swing. 
Scribner's  Magazine.  HARRISON  ROBERTSON. 


IN  THE   HAMMOCK. 

THE  lazy,  languid  breezes  sweep 

Across  a  fluttered  crowd  of  leaves ; 
The  shadows  fall  so  dim,  so  deep, 
Ah,  love,  't  is  good  to  dream  and  sleep 
Where  nothing  jars  or  nothing  grieves. 

My  love  she  lies  at  languid  ease 

Across  her  silken  hammock's  length ; 
Her  stray  curls  flutter  in  the  breeze 
That  moves  amidst  the  sunlit  trees, 

And  stirs  their  gold  with  mimic  strength. 

So  calm,  so  still,  the  drowsy  noon ; 

So  sweet,  so  fair,  the  golden  day ; 
Too  sweet  that  it  should  turn  so  soon 
From  set  of  sun  to  rising  moon, 

And  fade  and  pass  away. 

Her  eyes  are  full  of  happy  dreams, 
And  languid  with  imuttered  bliss  ; 

The  calm  of  unstirred  mountain  streams, 

The  light  of  unforgotten  scenes, 
Live  in  her  thoughts  of  that  or  this. 

A  year,  a  month,  a  week,  a  day; 

The  meaning  of  some  look  or  word, 
Swift,  sudden  as  a  sunbeam's  ray,  — 
Do  these  across  her  memory  stray 

As  if  again  she  looked  or  heard  ? 


LOVE,   SENTIMENT,   AND  FRIENDSHIP.       151 

It  may  be  so.    I  would  it  were, 

For  I  who  love  and  she  who  dreams ; 

The  world  to  me  is  only  her. 

Can  my  heart's  cry  to  pity  stir 
Her  heart  that  silent  seems  ? 

O  deep  eyes,  lose  your  gentle  calm ; 

O  fair  cheek,  lose  your  tint  of  rose ; 
O  heart,  beat  swift  with  love's  alarm, 
That  I  may  win  with  chain  and  charm, 

And  hold  you  till  life  close. 

Lo,  sweet,  I  stand,  and  gaze  and  faint 

Beneath  the  wonder  of  your  eyes, 
Whose  beauty  I  can  praise  and  paint 
Till  words  and  fancy  lose  restraint, 

And  fear  forgotten  dies. 
London  Society. 


THE  RING'S  MOTTO. 

A  LOVER  gave  the  wedding  ring 

Into  the  goldsmith's  hand  ; 
"  Grave  me,"  he  said,  "  a  tender  thought 
Within  the  golden  band." 
The  goldsmith  graved 
With  careful  art, 
"Till  death  us  part." 

The  wedding  bell  rang  gladly  out ; 

The  husband  said,  "  O  wife, 
Together  we  shall  share  the  grief, 
The  happiness  of  life. 
I  give  to  thee 
My  hand,  my  heart, 
Till  death  us  part." 

'T  was  she  that  lifted  now  his  hand, 

(O  love,  that  this  should  be !) 
Then  on  it  placed  the  golden  band, 
And  whispered  tenderly : 
"  Till  death  us  join, 
Lo,  thou  art  mine, 
And  I  am  thine. 

"  And  when  death  joins,  we  nevermore 

Shall  know  an  aching  heart, 
The  bridal  of  that  better  love 
Death  has  no  power  to  part. 
That  troth  will  be, 
For  thee  and  me, 
Eternity." 


152  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

So  up  the  hill  and  down  the  hill, 
Through  fifty  changing  years, 
They  shared  each  other's  happiness, 
They  dried  each  other's  tears. 
Alas,  alas, 

That  death's  cold  dart 
Such  love  can  part ! 

But  one  sad  day  —  she  stood  alone 

Beside  his  narrow  bed ; 
She  drew  the  ring  from  off  her  hand, 
And  to  the  goldsmith  said : 
"  O  man  who  graved 
With  careful  art, 
'  Till  death  us  part/ 

"  Now  grave  four  other  words  for  me,  - 

*  Till  death  us  join/  "     He  took 
The  precious  golden  band  once  more, 
With  solemn,  wistful  look, 
And  wrought  with  care, 
For  love,  not  coin, 
"  Till  death  us  join." 


ASKING. 

HE  stole  from  my  bodice  a  rose, 
My  cheek  was  its  color  the  while ; 

But,  ah,  the  sly  rogue !  he  well  knows, 
Had  he  asked  it,  I  must  have  said  no. 

He  snatched  from  my  lips  a  soft  kiss ; 

I  tried  at  a  frown  —  't  was  a  smile  ; 
For,  ah,  the  sly  rogue !  he  knows  this : 

Had  he  asked  it,  I  must  have  said  no. 

That  "  asking  "  in  love  's  a  mistake, 
It  puts  one  in  mind  to  refuse ; 

'  T  is  best  not  to  ask,  but  to  take ; 
For  it  saves  one  the  need  to  say  no. 

Yet,  stay  —  this  is  folly  I  Ve  said ; 

Some  things  should  be  asked  if  desired ; 
My  rogue  hopes  my  promise  to  wed ; 

When  he  asks  me,  I  will  not  say  no. 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       153 


AN   OLD   RHYME. 

"  I  DARE  not  ask  a  kisse, 

I  dare  not  beg  a  smile, 
Lest  having  that  or  this, 

I  might  grow  proud  the  while. 
No,  no,  the  utmost  share 

Of  my  desire  shall  be 
Only  to  kisse  the  aire 

That  lately  kissed  thee." 


THE  FRIVOLOUS  GIRL. 

HER  eyes  were  bright  and  merry, 
She  danced  in  the  mazy  whirl  ; 

She  took  the  world  in  its  sunshine, 
For  she  was  a  frivolous  girl. 

She  dressed  like  a  royal  princess, 

She  wore  her  hair  in  a  curl ; 
The  gossips  said,  "  What  a  pity 

That  she 's  such  a  frivolous  girl  1 " 

(TWENTY  YEARS  LATER.) 

She  's  a  wife,  a  mother,  a  woman, 
Grand,  noble,  and  pure  as  a  pearl ; 

While  the  gossips  say,  "  Would  you  think  it, 

Of  only  a  frivolous  girl  ?  " 
Steubenville  Herald. 


WHERE   IGNORANCE   IS   BLISS. 

Is  love  contagious  ?  —  I  don't  know ; 
But  this  I  am  prepared  to  say, 
That  I  have  felt  for  many  a  day 
A  great  desire  to  make  it  so. 

Does  she  vouchsafe  a  thought  of  me  ? 
Sometimes  I  think  she  does ;  and  then 
I  *m  forced  to  grope  in  doubt  again, 
Which  seems  my  normal  state  to  be. 


154  THE  HUMBLER  POETS, 

Why  don't  I  ask,  and  asking  know  ? 
I  grant  perhaps  it  might  be  wise ; 
But  when  I  look  into  her  eyes, 
And  hear  her  voice  which  thrills  me  so, 

I  think  that  on  the  whole  I  won't ; 
I  'd  rather  doubt  than  know  she  don't. 


AN  EXPLANATION. 

HER  lips  were  so  near 
That  — what  else  could  I  do? 
You  '11  be  angry,  I  fear, 
But  her  lips  were  so  near  — 
Well,  I  can't  make  it  clear, 
Or  explain  it  to  you, 
But  —  her  lips  were  so  near 
That  —  what  else  couid  I  do? 
ScribneSs  Magazine.  WALTER  LEARNED. 


THINE  EYES. 

THOU  hast  diamonds  and  pearls  of  rare  beauty, 
Thou  hast  all  that  the  heart  can  admire  ; 
Thine  eyes  shine  far  brighter  than  jewels  — 
What  more  can  my  darling  desire  ? 

On  thine  eyes,  bright  as  stars  of  the  evening, 
Have  I  written  and  tuned  to  my  lyre 
Whole  volumes  of  rapturous  sonnets  — 
What  more  can  my  darling  desire? 

With  thine  eyes  of  unquenchable  splendor 
Hast  thou  kindled  my  heart  into  fire, 
And  forced  me  to  kneel  as  thy  suitor  — 
What  more  can  my  darling  desire  ? 

JOHN  F.  BALLANTYNE. 
(From  the  German  of  Heine.  \ 


HYMN  TO  SANTA   RITA, 
THE  PATRON  SAINT  OF  THE  IMPOSSIBLE, 

HAVE  you  heard  of  Santa  Rita  ? 

Patron  of  the  hopeless,  she  ; 
Fleeting  dreams  of  pleasure  fleeter 

Under  her  protection  be ; 


LOVE,  SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       155 

Idle  wish  and  aspiration, 

Fruitless  hope  and  gray  despair, 
Crave  alike  her  mediation,  — 

Santa  Rita !  hear  my  prayer 

Long  have  I,  with  ardor  leal, 

Sought  the  maiden  of  my  dreams, 
Chasing  still  my  bright  ideal, 

Like  a  marsh-light's  taunting  gleams. 
Candles  sweet  and  incense  sweeter 

Do  I  vow  thee,  week  by  week,  — 
Give  me,  lovely  Santa  Rita  ! 

The  ideal  girl  I  seek. 

Rich  fair  eyes,  like  summer  twilight 

Ere  the  stars  glint  through  the  blue, 
Beaming  with  a  soft  and  shy  light, 

Hiding  summer  lightnings  too  ; 
Rich  brown  hair  in  wayward  cluster, 

Rippling  down  in  heavy  fold, 
Giving  in  the  sunset's  lustre 

Here  and  there  a  gleam  of  gold ; 

Fair,  sweet  face,  whose  quick  expression 

Mirrors  well  the  thoughts  that  flit,  — 
Soft  now  with  love's  shy  confession, 

Brightened  now  by  fire  of  wit ; 
Fair,  sweet  nature,  were  I  bolder 

To  dispel  the  doubts  that  spring, 
I  would  touch  her  angel  shoulder, 

Just  to  feel  the  budding  wing ! 

Silver  voice  to  charm  and  fill  me 

With  an  ecstasy  of  sound  ; 
Springing,  buoyant  step  to  thrill  me 

In  the  waltz's  dazing  round ; 
Mind  as  bright  as  rainbow's  prism, 

Wit  as  keen  as  archer's  dart, 
And,  to  work  the  mechanism, 

Just  a  little  mite  of  heart. 

This  my  longing,  Santa  Rita ! 

This  the  girl  for  whom  I  wait. 
Tell  me,  tell  me,  shall  I  meet  her 

Ere  I  die  disconsolate  ? 
Are  my  dreams  but  idle  fancy  ? 

Lives  there  such  a  maiden  rare  ? 
I  invoke  thy  necromancy,  — 

Santa  Rita  1  hear  my  prayer  1 

ALVEY  A.  ADFE 


156  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


WE  LOVE   BUT   FEW. 

OH,  yes,  we  mean  all  kind  words  that  we  say 

To  old  friends  and  to  new ; 
Yet  doth  this  truth  grow  clearer  day  by  day : 

We  love  but  few. 

We  love  !  we  love  !    What  easy  words  to  say, 

And  sweet  to  hear, 
When  sunrise  splendor  brightens  all  the  way, 

And,  far  and  near, 

Are  breath  of  flowers  and  carolling  of  birds, 

And  bells  that  chime  ; 
Our  hearts  are  light :  we  do  not  weigh  our  words 

At  morning  time ! 

But  when  the  matin  music  all  is  hushed, 

And  life's  great  load 
Doth  weigh  us  down,  and  thick  with  dust 

Doth  grow  the  road, 

Then  do  we  say  less  often  that  we  love. 

The  words  have  grown  ! 
With  pleading  eyes  we  look  to  Christ  above, 

And  clasp  our  own. 

Their  lives  are  bound  to  ours  by  mighty  bands 

No  mortal  strait, 
Nor  Death  himself,  with  his  prevailing  hands, 

Can  separate. 

The  world  is  wide,  and  many  friends  are  dear, 

And  friendships  true ; 
Yet  do  these  words  read  plainer,  year  by  year: 

We  love  but  few. 


A  SONG   FOR  THE  GIRL  I   LOVE. 


A  SONG  for  the  girl  I  love  — 

God  love  her  ! 

A  song  for  the  eyes  that  tender  shine, 
And  the  fragant  mouth  that  melts  on  mine, 
The  shimmering  tresses  uncontrolled 
That  clasp  her  neck  with  tendrils  of  gold  ; 
And  the  blossom  mouth  and  the  dainty  chin, 
And  the  little  dimples  out  and  in  — 
The  girl  I  love  — 
God  love  her  1 


LOVE,   SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       157 

II. 

A  song  for  the  girl  I  loved  — 

God  loved  her! 

A  song  for  the  eyes  of  faded  light, 
And  the  cheek  whose  red  rose  waned  to  white, 
And  the  quiet  brow,  with  its  shadow  and  gleam, 
And  the  dark  lashes  drooped  in  a  long,  deep  dream, 
And  the  small  hands  crosred  for  their  churchyard  rest, 
And  the  lilies  dead  on  her  sweet  dead  breast. 
The  girl  I  loved  — 

God  loved  her ! 

FREDERICK 


UNDOWERED. 

THOU  hast  not  gold  ?    Why,  this  is  gold 
All  clustering  round  thy  forehead  white ; 

And  were  it  weighed,  and.  were  it  told, 
I  could  not  say  its  worth  to-night ! 

Thou  hast  not  wit  ?    Why,  what  is  this 
Wherewith  thou  capturest  many  a  wight, 

Who  doth  forget  a  tongue  is  his, 
As  I  well-nigh  forgot  to-night  ? 

Nor  station  ?     Well,  ah,  well !  I  own 
Thou  hast  no  place  assured  thee  quite ; 

So  now  I  raise  thee  to  a  throne ; 

Begin  thy  reign,  my  Queen,  to-night. 
Scribner's  Magazine.  HARRIET  McEwEN  KIMBALL. 


THE   SILENCE   OF   LOVE. 

I  HOLD  that  we  are  wrong  to  seek 
To  put  in  words  our  deepest  thought ; 
The  purer  things  by  Nature  taught 

Are  turned  to  coarser  when  we  speak. 

The  flower  whose  perfume  charms  the  sense 
Grows  hard  and  common  to  the  touch, 
And  love  that 's  wordy  overmuch 

Is  marred  by  its  experience ; 

For  love,  like  sympathy,  hath  bands 
More  strong  in  silence  than  in  speech, 
And  hearts  speak  loudest,  each  to  each, 

Through  meeting  lips  and  clasp  of  hands. 

Nor  could  I  hope  for  fitting  word 
To  form  in  speech  the  thoughts  that  start ; 
The  inner  core  of  every  heart 

Hath  yearnings  that  are  never  heard. 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

They  are  too  subtile,  and  transcend 

The  power  of  words  to  speak  them  right ; 

We  therefore  shut  them  out  of  sight, 
To  burn  in  silence  to  the  end. 
Yet  even  as  the  Magi  held 

Their  sun  as  sacred,  so  I  hold 

My  love  is  holy,  sacred-souled, 
And  pure  as  sacred  fire  of  eld. 
Nor  dare  I  stain  with  word  or  pen 

This  inner  purer  love  to  thee 

Whose  higher  nature  raiseth  me 
Beyond  the  common  line  of  men. 

HAMILTON  DRUMMOND, 


AH!  ME. 

THE  fairest  flower  upon  the  vine  — 

So  far  above  my  reach  it  grows 
I  ne'er  can  hope  to  make  it  mine  — 

Smiles  in  the  sun,  —  a  peerless  rose. 
The  wind  is  whispering  soft  and  low 

Fond  praises  of  its  loveliness ; 

Its  sweetness  I  can  only  guess, 
But  never  know. 

On  beauteous  lips  —  as  far  away 

As  is  the  rose  —  a  kiss  there  lies, 
And  on  those  lips  that  kiss  must  stay, 

Though  I  may  look  with  longing  eyes ; 
A  cruel  fate  hath  willed  it  so, 

Not  mine  that  crimson  mouth  to  press ; 

Its  sweetness  I  can  only  guess, 
But  never  know. 


JUBILATE. 

BEYOND  the  light-house,  standing  sentinel 
Just  where  the  line  of  earth  and  ocean  meet, 

The  foam-crowned  rollers  slowly  rose  and  fell 
Upon  the  low  reef  with  a  murmurous  beat. 

And  sweeping  far  away,  like  rippled  gold, 
Lay  the  wide  bosom  of  the  restless  sea, 

Where  a  brave  ship  down  to  the  sky-line  rolled, 
Bearing  afar  the  one  most  dear  to  me. 

Slowly  the  broad  moon  dipped  into  the  west, 
And  for  a  moment  hung  the  waves  above  ; 

While  borne  along  the  ocean's  lighted  breast 
The  stout  ship  swiftly  'fore  the  strong  wind  drove. 


LOVE,   SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       159 

Right  in  the  sinking  sphere  she  sailed  at  last, 
Her  tall  sails  bearing  her  right  bravely  on  ; 

Out  flashed  a  radiance,  gilding  hull  and  mast, 
And  in  a  moment  ship  and  moon  were  gone. 

And  seeing  this,  my  heart  grew  glad  and  light. 

Though  storms  may  roar  along  the  restless  main, 
I  know  there  is  a  limit  to  their  might, 

And  I  shall  have  my  sweetheart's  kiss  again. 


MY   JOSIAR. 

THINGS  has  come  to  a  pretty  pass 

The  whole  wide  country  over, 
When  every  married  woman  has 

To  have  a  friend  or  lover ; 
It  ain't  the  way  that  I  was  raised, 

And  I  hain't  no  desire 
To  have  some  feller  pokin'  round 

Instead  of  my  Josiar. 

I  never  kin  forget  the  day 

That  we  went  out  a  walkin', 
An*  sot  down  on  the  river-bank, 

An'  kep'  on  hours  a  talkin* ; 
He  twisted  up  my  apron-string 

An*  folded  it  together, 
An*  said  he  thought  for  harvest  time 

'T  was  cur'us  kind  o'  weather. 

The  sun  went  down  as  we  sot  there  — 

Josiar  seemed  uneasy ; 
An'  mother  she  began  to  call : 

"  Looweezy,  oh,  Looweezy  !  " 
An*  then  Josiar  spoke  right  up, 

As  I  was  just  a  startin', 
An'  said,  "  Looweezy !  what  *s  the  use 

Of  us  two  ever  partin'  ? " 

It  kind  o*  took  me  by  surprise, 

An'  yet  I  knew  't  was  comin* ; 
I  'd  heard  it  all  the  summer  long 

In  every  wild  bee's  hummin' ; 
I  'd  studied  out  the  way  I  'd  act,  — 

But  law  !  I  could  n't  do  it ; 
I  meant  to  hide  my  love  from  him, 

But  seems  as  if  he  knew  it. 
An*  lookin'  down  into  my  eyes 

He  must  have  seen  the  fire,  — 
An*  ever  since  that  hour  I  *ve  loved 

An'  worshipped  my  Josiar. 


l6o  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

1  can't  tell  what  the  women  mean 

Who  let  men  fool  around  'em, 
Belie vin'  all  the  nonsense  that 

They  only  say  to  sound  'em  ; 
I  know,  for  one,  I  've  never  seen 

The  man  that  I  'd  admire 
To  have  a  hangin'  after  me 

Instead  of  my  Josiar. 


THE  CONSTANT  FRIEND. 

HUMAN  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  root  in  human  needs, 

And  I  would  not  wish  to  strip 

From  that  washerwoman's  lip 
Any  song  that  she  may  sing, 
Any  hope  that  she  can  bring  ; 

For  the  woman  has  a  friend 

That  will  keep  her  to  the  end. 

E.  F.  WARE. 


FRIENDSHIP. 

FRIENDSHIP  needs  no  studied  phrases, 
Polished  face,  or  winning  wiles ; 

Friendship  deals  no  lavish  praises, 
Friendship  dons  no  surface  smiles. 

Friendship  follows  Nature's  diction, 
Shuns  the  blandishments  of  Art, 

Boldly  severs  truth  from  fiction, 
Speaks  the  language  of  the  heart. 

Friendship  favors  no  condition, 
Scorns  a  narrow-minded  creed, 

Lovingly  fulfils  its  mission, 
Be  it  word  or  be  it  deed. 

Friendship  cheers  the  faint  and  weary, 
Makes  the  timid  spirit  brave, 

Warns  the  erring,  lights  the  dreary, 
Smooths  the  passage  to  the  grave. 

Friendship  —  pure,  unselfish  friendship, 
All  through  life's  allotted  span, 

Nurtures,  strengthens,  widens,  lengthens 
Man's  affinity  with  man. 


LOVE,    SENTIMENT,  AND  FRIENDSHIP.       i6l 


FRIENDSHIP,   LOVE,   AND   TRUTH. 

FRIENDSHIP  doth  bind,  with  pleasant  ties, 
The  heart  of  man  to  man,  and  age 

But  strengthens  it  —  it  never  dies 
Till  finished  is  life's  final  page. 

Love  is  the  sacred  link  which  binds 

Hearts  joined  by  friendship  firmer  still ; 

Who  once  has  felt  it,  in  it  finds 
Joys  which  his  soul  with  pleasure  fill. 

Truth  only  can  complete  the  chain, 
Its  links  enduring  strength  can  give ; 

With  this  unbroken  't  will  remain 
While  e'er  the  human  soul  shall  live. 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE. 

MY  friend,  my  chum,  my  trusty  crony  i 

We  are  designed,  it  seems  to  me, 
To  be  two  happy  lazzaroni, 
On  sunshine  fed,  and  macaroni, 

Far  off  by  some  Sicilian  sea. 

From  dawn  to  eve  in  the  happy  land, 

No  duty  on  us  but  to  lie  — 
Straw-hatted  on  the  shining  sand, 
With  bronzing  chest  and  arm  and  hand  «•• 

Beneath  the  blue  Italian  sky. 

There,  with  the  mountains  idly  glassing 
Their  purple  splendors  in  the  sea  — 

To  watch  the  white-winged  vessels  passing 

(Fortunes  for  busier  fools  amassing), 
This  were  a  heaven  to  you  and  me. 

Our  meerschaums  coloring  cloudy  brown, 

Two  young  girls  coloring  with  a  blush, 
The  blue  waves  with  a  silver  crown, 
The  mountain  shadows  dropping  down, 
And  all  the  air  in  perfect  hush. 

Thus  should  we  lie  in  the  happy  land, 

Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  fortune  miss; 
Straw-hatted  on  the  shining  sand. 
With  bronzing  chest  and  arms  and  hand*  — 
Two  loafers  couched  in  perfect  bliss. 

CHARLES  GRAHAM  HALPINE, 

(.Miles  O'Reilly,) 


1 62  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


A  BIRTHDAY   GREETING. 

WHAT  shall  I  wish  thee  for  the  coming  year  ? 
Twelve  months  of  dream-like  ease  ?  no  care  ?  no  pain  ? 
Bright  spring,  calm  summer,  autumn  without  rain 
Of  bitter  tears  ?     Wouldst  have  it  thus,  my  friend  ? 
What  lesson,  then,  were  learnt  at  the  year's  end  ? 

What  shall  I  wish  thee,  then  ?    God  knoweth  well 
If  I  could  have  my  way  no  shade  of  woe 
Should  ever  dim  thy  sunshine ;  but  I  know 
Strong  courage  is  not  learnt  in  happy  sleep, 
Nor  patience  sweet  by  eyes  that  never  weep. 

Ah,  would  my  wishes  were  of  more  avail 
To  keep  from  thee  the  many  jars  of  life  ! 
Still  let  me  wish  thee  courage  for  the  strife,  — 
The  happiness  that  comes  of  work  well  done,  — 
And,  afterwards,  the  peace  of  victory  won  1 

M.  E.  F. 


OLD   FRIENDS. 

WE  just  shake  hands  at  meeting 

With  many  that  come  nigh, 
We  nod  the  head  in  greeting 

To  many  that  go  by. 
But  we  welcome  through  the  gateway 

Our  few  old  friends  and  true ; 
Then  hearts  leap  up  and  straightway 

There  '&  open  house  for  you, 

Old  friends, 
Wide-open  house  for  you. 

The  surface  will  be  sparkling, 

Let  but  a  sunbeam  shine, 
But  in  the  deep  lies  darkling 

The  true  life  of.the  wine. 
The  froth  is  for  the  many, 

The  wine  is  for  the  few ; 
Unseen,  untouched  of  any, 

We  keep  the  best  for  you, 

Old  friends, 
The  very  best  for  you. 

"  The  many  "  cannot  know  us, 
They  only  pace  the  strand 

Where  at  our  worst  we  show  us, 
The  waters  thick  with  sand ; 


LOVE,   SENTIMENT,  AND   FRIENDSHIP.       163 

But  put  beyond  the  leaping 

Dim  surge  "  't  is  clear  and  blue," 

And  there,  old  friends,  we  're  keeping 
A  waiting  calm  for  you, 
Old  friends, 

A  sacred  calm  for  you. 


SOMETIMES. 

SOMETIMES  —  not  often  —  when  the  days  are  long, 

And  golden  lie  the  ripening  fields  of  grain, 
Like  cadence  of  some  half-forgotten  song, 

There  sweeps  a  memory  across  my  brain. 
I  hear  the  handrail  far  among  the  grass, 

The  drowsy  murmur  in  the  scented  lanes ; 
I  watch  the  radiant  butterflies  that  pass, 

And  I  am  sad  and  sick  at  heart  sometimes  — 
Sometimes. 

Sometimes,  when  royal  winter  holds  his  sway, 

When  every  cloud  is  swept  from  azure  skies, 
And  frozen  pool  and  lighted  hearth  are  gay 

With  laughing  lips  and  yet  more  laughing  eyes, 
From  far-off  days  an  echo  wanders  by, 

That  makes  a  discord  in  the  Christmas  chimes; 
A  moment  in  the  dance  or  talk  I  sigh, 

And  seem  half  lonely  in  the  crowd  sometimes  — 
Sometimes. 

Not  often,  not  for  long.    O  friend,  my  friend, 

We  were  not  lent  our  life  that  we  might  weep  : 
The  flower-crowned  May  of  earth  hath  soon  an  end ; 

Should  our  fair  spring  a  longer  sojourn  keep  ? 
Comes  all  too  soon  the  time  of  fading  leaves, 

Come  on  the  cold  short  days.     We  must  arise 
And  go  our  way,  and  garner  home  our  sheaves, 

Though  some  far  faint  regret  may  cloud  our  eyes 
Sometimes. 

Sometimes  I  see  a  light  almost  divine 

In  meeting  eyes  of  two  that  now  are  one. 
Impatient  of  the  tears  that  rise  to  mine, 

I  turn  away  to  seek  some  work  undone. 
There  dawns  a  look  upon  some  stranger  face ; 

I  think,  "  How  like,  and  yet  how  far  less  fair  I n 
And  look,  and  look  again,  and  seek  to  trace 

A  moment  more  your  fancied  likeness  there  — 
Sometimes. 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

O  sad,  sweet  thoughts  !  O  foolish,  vain  regrets  1 

As  wise  it  were,  what  time  June  roses  blow, 
To  weep  because  the  first  blue  violet 

We  found  in  spring  has  faded  long  ago. 
O  love,  my  love,  if  yet  by  song  of  bird, 

By  flower-scent,  by  some  sad  poet's  rhymes, 
My  heart,  that  fain  would  be  at  peace,  is  stirred, 

Am  I  to  blame  that  still  I  sigh  sometimes  ?  — 
Sometimes  ? 

And  sometimes  know  a  pang  of  jealous  pain, 

That,  while  I  walk  all  lonely,  other  eyes 
May  haply  smile  to  yours  that  smile  again 

Beneath  the  sun  and  stars  of  Southern  skies. 
The  past  is  past ;  but  is  it  sin,  if  yet 

I,  who  in  calm  content  would  seek  to  dwell, 
Who  will  not  grieve,  yet  cannot  quite  forget, 

Still  send  a  thought  to  you,  and  wish  you  well 
Sometimes  ? 

LOUISA  F.  STORY. 


PART   VI. 
of  fljc 


Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  gray  stones ;  O  Sea! 
And  I  -would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

Oh  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play! 

Oh  -well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill; 
But  oh  for  the  touch  of  a  vanished  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

TENNYSON. 


PART  VI. 

of 


THE  LOVE   OF  THE  PAST. 

As  sailors  watch  from  their  prison 
For  the  long,  gray  line  of  the  coasts, 

I  look  to  the  past  re-arisen, 
And  joys  come  over  in  hosts 
Like  the  white  sea-birds  from  their  roosts. 

I  love  not  the  delicate  present, 

The  future  's  unknown  to  our  quest  ; 

To-day  is  the  life  of  the  peasant, 
But  the  past  is  a  haven  of  rest,  — 
The  joy  of  the  past  is  the  best. 

The  rose  of  the  past  is  better 
Than  the  rose  we  ravish  to-day  ; 

'T  is  holier,  purer,  and  fitter 

To  place  on  the  shrine  where  we  pray,  — 
For  the  secret  thoughts  we  obey. 

There  are  no  deceptions  nor  changes, 
There  all  is  as  placid  and  still  ; 

No  grief  nor  fate  that  estranges, 
Nor  hope  that  no  life  can  fulfil  ; 
But  ethereal  shelter  from  ill. 

The  coarse  delights  of  the  hour 
Tempt  and  debauch  and  deprave  ; 

And  we  joy  in  a  poisonous  flower, 
Knowing  that  nothing  can  save 
Our  flesh  from  the  fate  of  the  grave. 

But  surely  we  leave  them  returning 
In  grief  to  the  well-loved  nest, 

Filled  with  an  infinite  yearning, 
Knowing  the  past  to  be  rest,  — 
That  the  things  of  the  past  are  the  best. 
The  Spectator. 


168  THE   HUMBLER  POETS. 


THE  DAYS  THAT   ARE   NO  MORE. 

O  MEMORIES  of  green  and  pleasant  places, 

Where  happy  birds  their  woodnotes  twittered  low  I 

O  love  that  lit  the  dear  familiar  faces 
We  buried  long  ago  1 

From  barren  heights  their  sweetness  we  remember, 
And  backward  gaze  with  wistful,  yearning  eyes, 

As  hearts  regret,  mid  snow-drifts  of  December, 
The  summer's  sunny  skies. 

Glad  hours  that  seemed  their  rainbow  tints  to  borrow 
From  some  illumined  page  of  fairy  lore  ; 

Bright  days  that  never  lacked  a  bright  to-morrow, 
Days  that  return  no  more. 

Fair  gardens,  with  their  many-blossomed  alleys, 
And  red,  ripe  roses  breathing  out  perfume ;' 

Deep  violet  nooks  in  green,  sequestered  valleys 
Empurpled  o'er  with  bloom. 

Sunset  that  lighted  up  the  brown-leaved  beeches, 
Turning  their  dusky  glooms  to  glittering  gold ; 

Moonlight  that  on  the  river's  fern-fringed  beaches 
Streamed  white-rayed,  silvery  cold. 

O'er  moorlands  bleak  we  wander  weary-hearted, 
Through  many  a  tangled,  wild,  and  thorny  maze, 

Remembering  as  in  dreams  the  days  departed, 
The  bygone,  happy  days. 


MEMORY. 


O  DREADFUL  Memory  !  why  dost  thou  tread 
From  out  the  secret  chambers  of  my  life  ? 

Thou  livest  with  the  dead  — go  to  thy  dead ! 
Nor  break  my  peaceful  carelessness  with  strife. 

Thy  chains  are  heavy ;  thou  hast  bound  me  fast. 

I  bend  beneath  the  weight  I  have  to  bear  ; 
Leave  me  the  Present,  thou  hast  all  the  Past ! 

Unbind  me  —  go  1     I  keep  the  smallest  share. 

Art  thou  not  weary  of  thy  ceaseless  chase  ? 

Day  after  day  hast  thou  not  followed  me  ? 
Thou  wert  relentless  to  pursue  the  race, 

Until  thy  chains  had  bound  me  hopelessly. 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  169 

I  am  thy  captive ;  I  am  weak,  thou  strong  1 
Be  merciful ;  cease  to  torment  me  more. 

Spare  me  some  pangs  of  torture,  grief,  and  wrong ; 
Unloose  my  chains,  thy  wounds  are  deep  and  sore  1 


O  faint,  delicious  Memory,  I  call : 

Come  very  near  j  there  is  no  friend  like  thee  ! 

See,  I  have  nothing  left,  and  thou  hast  all ! 
For  one  short  hour  give  it  back  to  me. 

Give  me  my  charming  summer  skies  again, 

The  fragrance  of  my  spring  and  autumn  breeze, 

The  moon  that  I  have  watched  the  rise  and  wane, 
The  birds  I  love  to  hear  among  the  trees. 

Sweet  eyes,  lost  in  the  distance,  draw  more  near ; 

Dear  hands,  clasp  mine  —  clasp  closer  yet,  I  pray  5 
Beloved  voices,  speak  that  I  may  hear  ; 

Most  precious  Memory,  go  not  away  ! 

Without  thee  I  am  lonely ;  it  is  strange, 
Nothing  is  left  that  I  can  call  my  own. 

The  world  is  new,  passing  from  change  to  change ; 
My  nest  is  empty,  all  my  birds  have  flown. 

Depart  not  yet,  thy  tones  are  very  sweet, 
Echoes  of  faith  and  hope  and  victory  ! 

And  is  it  true,  ye  lost,  that  we  shall  meet  ? 

Canst  thou  restore  thy  treasures,  Memory  ? 
Peoples  Magazine. 


MEMORIES. 

THERE  dawn  dear  memories  of  the  past 

To  charm  us  as  we  muse  alone, 
Still  as  the  hues  on  rivers  cast 

When  long,  bright  days  have  almost  flown  ; 
Sometimes  they  come  and  fill  the  mind 

As  stars  the  heavens  when  clouds  are  few  ; 
And  there  a  cherished  welcome  find,  — 

Though  old,  yet  seeming  ever  new. 

They  are  the  treasures  time  has  made 

To  shadow  forth  the  bygone  years ; 
Though  dim  betimes,  they  cannot  fade, 

For  each  some  hallowed  beauty  bears. 
Long-slumbering  joys  each  gently  wakes, 

Forms  of  the  past  each  gently  weaves,  — 
E'en  as  a  cloudless  sunset  makes 

A  cool,  red  splendor  'mong  green  leaves. 


I  70  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

They  are  the  day-dreams  of  a  time 

Ere  life  had  felt  the  touch  of  care  ; 
Loved  like  some  sweet  bell's  holy  chime 

That  faints  upon  the  Sabbath  air. 
They  are  the  echoes  of  the  past, 

And  with  us,  when  alone,  they  dwell ; 
For  all  their  wondrous  beauties  last, 

Like  sounds  of  ocean  in  a  shell. 


ONE  BY  ONE. 

ONE  by  one  the  old-time  fancies 
Fall  like  blossoms  in  the  blast ; 

One  by  one  girlhood's  romances 
Fade  from  present  into  past. 

One  by  one  the  rosy  cloudlets, 
Tinted  with  the  hues  of  dawn, 

Lose  the  brightness  and  the  beauty 
That  belong  alone  to  morn. 

Very  fair  the  cherished  visions 
That  enchant  the  halls  of  youth ; 

Earthly  scenes  seem  then  Elysian, 
And  the  mirage  is  as  truth. 

One  by  one  the  visions  vanish 
In  the  light  experience  brings ; 

But  though  truth  the  unreal  banish, 
Still  remain  the  living  springs. 

Though  may  fade  the  sparkling  fountain 
Glittering  in  the  morning  ray, 

Still  upon  life's  rugged  mountain 
Streams  perennial  take  their  way. 

Then,  my  soul,  be  not  disheartened 

If  thy  castles  fade  in  air, 
And  thy  sunny  sky  be  darkened 

With  unwonted  shades  of  care. 

Still  be  thine  to  choose  and  cherish 
All  things  beautiful  and  bright, 

Though  thy  fancy's  garlands  perish 
In  earth's  disenchanting  light. 

Still  be  thine  to  see  the  rainbow 
Spanning  life's  most  dreary  slope; 

And  to  dream  of  deathless  beauty 
In  the  garden  of  thy  hope. 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  171 


HAUNTED   CHAMBERS. 

IN  the  old  and  ruined  mansion 

Where  no  joyous  voices  call, 
And  the  gloomy  shadows  linger 

Like  a  solemn  funeral  pall ; 
In  some  dim  deserted  passage 

Into  ruin  falling  fast, 
Aye,  they  say,  the  chamber  's  haunted 

With  the  spirits  of  the  past. 

When  the  shades  of  night  have  gathered, 

There  with  deep,  majestic  gloom 
Are  these  chambers  clothed,  while  spectres 

Gather  hither  from  the  tomb. 
Not  with  loud,  unhallowed  sounding, 

Not  with  vain,  unanswered  call, 
Are  they  gathered,  but  in  silence,  — 

Mystic,  mournful  silence  all. 

Forms  that  once  were  bright  with  being, 

Faces  wan  that  once  were  fair, 
Sadly  come  amid  the  silence 

That  at  midnight  reigneth  there. 
There  they  love  to  linger  lightly 

Till  the  Scars  have  ceased  to  glow,  — 
Linger  lonely  in  the  places 

That  were  joyous  "  long  ago." 

There  are  chambers,  haunted  chambers, 

Which  we  each  may  call  our  own, 
Where  are  present  forms  and  faces 

That  in  other  days  were  known. 
In  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

We,  from  busy  life  apart, 
Glance  in  sadness  and  in  sorrow 

At  the  chambers  of  the  heart. 

Ah,  what  forms  are  these  to  haunt  us 

When  alone  with  thought  at  night  I 
Ah,  what  faces  look  upon  us 

That  we  deemed  were  lost  to  sight  I 
Some  are  bright  as  when  we  knew  them, 

Others  wan  and  filled  with  woe  ; 
All  awake  the  thoughts  that  slumbered 

Of  the  days  of  "  long  ago." 

Ah,  the  haunted,  haunted  chambers 

Of  the  weary  human  heart ; 
They  are  filled  with  mournful  visions 

That  can  nevermore  depart 


172  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Till  that  heart  has  ceased  its  throbbing 
In  the  sorrow-laden  breast, 

And  the  visions  of  the  vanished 
Are  forevermore  at  rest. 


OUR  CHILDHOOD'S   HOME. 

THERE  is  one  spot  on  all  the  earth, 

Where'er  in  after  life  we  rove, 
To  which  the  heart  will  ever  turn 

With  an  unchanging,  deathless  love. 
Seas  may  perchance  roll  far  between, 

To  distant  lands  the  feet  may  roam, 
But  memory  turns  with  yearning  back 

To  it,  our  loved,  our  childhood's  home. 

Our  childhood's  home — who  can  forget 

The  many  happy,  happy  years 
Spent  there  when  all  the  world  seemed  bright, 

And  all  unknown  were  cares  and  tears  ? 
The  morning  sun  beamed  brightly  down 

On  tranquil  brows,  and  never  care 
Had  traced  a  line,  nor  sorrow  stamped 

Its  desolating  impress  there. 

But  swiftly  flew  the  summer  hours 

With  laugh  and  jest  and  guileless  song, 
And  in  a  pathway  strewed  with  flowers 

We  sped  our  happy  way  along ; 
We  revelled  in  a  sea  of  love,— 

A  perfect  Eden  of  delight ; 
And  years  flew  on  and  brought  no  change, 

For  all  was  pure  and  all  was  bright. 

How  different  now  !     No  more  we  see 

The  pleasant  home  we  loved  so  well ; 
No  more  we  hear  in  silvery  tones 

The  simple  song  of  evening  swell. 
We  miss  the  father's  kind  caress, 

The  mother's  kiss  and  accents  mild ; 
The  sister's  smile,  the  brother's  clasp,  — 

All  that  was  valued  when  a  child. 

What  have  we  gained  in  lieu  of  these  ? 

We  sought  for  wealth,  perchance  a  name ; 
But  what  is  wealth  compared  with  love, 

And  who  can  climb  the  steep  of  Fame  ? 
With  weary  heart  and  throbbing  brow, 

And  mind  with  many  cares  oppressed, 
Night  after  night  we  seek  our  couch, 

And  "  sink  to  sleep  but  not  to  rest. " 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  173 

And  still  through  all  the  busy  strife, 

Through  all  the  cares  and  maddening  fears 
Of  life,  the  heart  will  wander  back 

To  those  beloved  and  happy  years ; 
And  we  shall  say,  in  all  the  earth, 

No  matter  where  the  feet  may  roam, 
We  may  not  find  the  stainless  truth 

That  blessed  our  childhood's  happy  home. 

Friendship  is  but  a  hollow  mask, 

Ambition  but  an  empty  name, 
And  disappointment  waits  on  him 

Who  follows  in  pursuit  of  fame. 
And  then  at  last  we  drop  and  fade 

Like  autumn  leaves,  and  fall  and  die, 
With  no  kind  hand  to  raise  the  head, 

And  gently  close  the  dying  eye. 

Followed  by  strangers  to  the  grave, 

Few  our  departure  to  deplore, 
The  clay  falls  coldly  on  the  breast, 

The  mound  is  raised,  and  all  is  o'er ! 
And  yet  not  all ;  for  in  that  land 

Where  tears  and  trials  never  come, 
Thank  God  1  we  yet  may  join  the  band 

Who  shared  with  us  our  childhood's  home. 

R.  S. 


A  RAINY  DAY. 

How  tired  one  grows  of  a  rainy  day, 
For  a  rainy  day  brings  back  so  much ; 

Old  dreams  revive  that  are  buried  away, 
And  the  past  comes  back  to  the  sight  and  touch. 

When  the  night  is  short  and  the  day  is  long, 
And  the  rain  falls  down  with  ceaseless  beat, 

We  tire  of  our  thoughts  as  we  tire  of  a  song 
That  over  and  over  is  played  in  the  street. 

When  I  woke  this  morning  and  heard  the  splash 
Of  the  rain-drop  over  the  tall  elm's  leaves, 

I  was  carried  back  in  a  lightning  flash 
To  the  dear  old  home  with  the  sloping  eaves. 

And  you  and  I,  in  the  garret  high, 
Were  playing  again  at  hide-go-seek ; 

And  bright  was  the  light  of  your  laughing  eye, 
And  rich  the  glow  of  your  rounded  cheek. 


174  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  again  I  was  nestled  in  my  white  bed 
Under  the  eaves,  and  hearing  above 

The  feet  of  the  rain-steeds  over  my  head, 

While  I  dreamed  sweet  dreams  of  you,  my  love. 

Love,  my  lover,  with  eyes  of  truth,  — 

0  beautiful  love  of  the  vanished  years, 
There  is  no  other  love  like  the  love  of  youth, 

1  say  it  over  and  over  with  tears. 

Wealth  and  honor  and  fame  may  come,  — 
They  cannot  replace  what  is  taken  away  ; 

There  is  no  other  home  like  the  childhood's  home, 
No  other  love  like  the  love  of  May. 

Though  the  sun  is  bright  in  the  mid-day  skies, 
There  cometh  an  hour  when  the  sad  heart  grieves 

With  a  lonely  wail,  like  a  lost  child's  cry, 
For  the  trundle-bed  and  the  sloping  eaves ; 

When,  with  vague  unrest  and  nameless  pain, 
We  hunger  and  thirst  for  a  voice  and  touch 

That  we  never  on  earth  shall  know  again  — 
Oh,  a  rainy  day  brings  back  so  much  1 


UNFINISHED   STILL. 

A  BABY'S  boot  and  a  skein  of  wool, 

Faded  and  soiled  and  soft ; 
Odd  things,  you  say,  and  I  doubt  you  're  right, 
Round  a  seaman's  neck,  this  stormy  night, 

Up  in  the  yards  aloft. 

Most  likely  it 's  folly ;  but,  mate,  look  here  ! 

When  first  I  went  to  sea, 
A  woman  stood  on  yon  far-off  strand 
With  a  wedding  ring  on  the  small  soft  hand 

Which  clung  close  to  me. 

My  wife,  —  God  bless  her  !  —  the  day  before 

Sat  she  beside  my  foot ; 
And  the  sunlight  kissed  her  yellow  hair, 
And  the  dainty  fingers,  deft  and  fair, 

Knitted  a  baby's  boot. 

The  voyage  was  over  ;  I  came  ashore  ; 

What  think  you  I  found  there  ? 
A  grave  the  daisies  had  sprinkled  white, 
A  cottage  empty  and  dark  at  night, 

And  this  beside  the  chair. 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  175 

The  little  boot,  't  was  unfinished  still ; 

The  tangled  skein  lay  near ; 
But  the  knitter  had  gone  away  to  her  rest, 
With  the  babe  asleep  on  her  quiet  breast, 

Down  in  the  churchyard  drear. 


A  VAGRANT. 

I  CANNOT  check  my  thought  these  days, 

When  incense  lingers  in  the  air, 
But  with  unwearied  wing  it  strays, 

I  know  not  how  or  where. 

I  know  not  where  the  blossoms  hide 
That  throw  their  lures  across  its  flight ; 

How  stars  can  fling  their  gates  so  wide, 
To  give  my  thought  delight. 

There  is  no  door  close  barred  and  sealed 

Where  cowers  suffering  or  sin, 
But  will  to  touch  or  whisper  yield, 

And  let  this  vagrant  in. 

It  bears  no  passport,  no  parole, 

But,  free  and  careless  as  the  air, 
My  thought  despises  all  control, 

And  wanders  everywhere. 

Its  warrant  from  the  Throne  of  thrones, 

Its  duty  to  the  King  of  kings, 
Through  heights,  and  depths,  and  circling  zones 

It  soars  on  seraph  wings. 

What  canst  thou  bring  from  yon  fair  height, 
What  bring  me  from  the  deepening  sea  ? 

What  gather  for  thy  own  delight 

That  is  not  wealth  to  me  ? 
Scribner's  Magazine.  JOSEPHINE  POLLARD. 


DREAMS. 

Good-night  ?  ah  !  no ;  the  hour  is  ill 
Which  severs  those  it  should  unite  ; 

Let  us  remain  together  still, 
Then  it  will  be  good-vi\^s\\.. 

SHELLEY. 

THE  night  hours  wane,  the  bleak  winds  of  December 
Sweep  through  the  branches  of  the  singing  pine, 

And  while  I  watch  each  slowly  dying  ember 
I  dream  of  joys  that  never  may  be  mine. 


176  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

The  vacant  chair,  the  room  so  sad  and  lonely, 
Bring  visions  of  a  home  'neath  other  skies, 

A  home  created  by  my  fancy  only, 

My  heart's  true  rest,  my  earthly  paradise. 

In  the  night  watches  when  my  hands  are  folded 
In  weary  calm  upon  my  hopeless  breast, 

These  bright  creatures,  by  my  heart's  love  moulded, 
Quicken  its  beat,  and  rise  all  unrepressed. 

Roof -tree  and  tower  and  portal  rise  unaided  ; 

Aladdin  like,  their  instant  birth  I  see  ; 
And  at  love's  shrine,  by  doubtings  uninvaded, 

I  offer  up  my  wild  idolatry. 

Only  the  fire's  warm  heart,  intensely  glowing, 

Sends  languid  throbs  of  brightness  through  the  gloom, 

And  gorgeous  flowers,  with  tropic  life  overflowing, 
Pour  on  the  peaceful  air  their  sweet  perfume. 

Now  clasp  I  in  my  arms  my  long-sought  treasure, 
Now  a  dear  head  is  pillowed  on  my  breast ; 

And  with  a  joy  no  earthly  tongue  can  measure, 
Warm,  trembling  lips  to  mine  are  fondly  pressed. 

For  thou  art  with  me,  with  thy  presence  blessing, 
Thou  dearest,  best,  my  first  love  and  my  last ; 

Within  thy  arms,  thy  purest  love  possessing, 
Darkness  is  gone,  and  night  is  overpast. 

O  rapturous  kisses !  passionate  caressing ! 

O  heart's  quick  beating  with  a  wild  delight  1 
O  murmured  words,  our  mutual  love  confessing ! 

Parted  no  more,  at  last  it  is  good-night. 


AN  OLD   SONG. 

You  laugh  as  you  turn  the  yellow  page 

Of  that  queer  old  song  you  sing, 
And  wonder  how  folks  could  ever  see 
A  charm  in  the  simple  melody 
Of  such  an  old-fashioned  thing. 

That  yellow  page  was  fair  to  view, 
That  quaint  old  type  was  fresh  and  new, 
That  simple  strain  was  our  delight 
When  here  we  gathered  night  by  night, 
And  thought  the  music  of  our  day 
An  endless  joy  to  sing  and  play, 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  177 

In  our  youth,  long,  long  ago. 
A  joyous  group  we  loved  to  meet, 
When  hope  was  high  and  life  was  sweet ; 
When  romance  shed  its  golden  light, 
That  circled,  in  a  nimbus  bright, 

O'er  Time's  unwrinkled  brow. 

The  lips  are  mute  that  sang  these  words  ; 
The  hands  are  still  that  struck  these  chords ; 

The  loving  heart  is  cold. 
From  out  the  circle,  one  by  one, 
Some  dear  companion  there  has  gone. 
While  others  stay  to  find  how  true 
That  life  has  chord  and  discord  too, 

And  all  of  us  are  old. 

*T  is  not  alone  when  music  thrills, 
The  power  of  thought  profound  that  fills 

The  soul !  'T  is  not  all  art ! 
The  old  familiar  tones  we  hear 
Die  not  upon  the  listening  ear; 

They  vibrate  in  the  heart. 

And  now  you  know  the  reason,  dear, 
Why  I  have  kept  and  treasured  here 

This  song  of  bygone  years. 
You -laugh  at  the  old-fashioned  strain; 
It  brings  my  childhood  back  again, 

And  fills  my  eyes  with  tears. 


THE   BOAT-HORN. 

OH,  list  the  boat-horn's  wild  refrain, 

O'er  eve's  still  waters  stealing  clear ! 
So  softly  sweet,  so  sad  a  strain 

Ne'er  woke  before  to  charm  the  ear. 
From  out  the  past  it  brings  once  more, 

As  waking  echoes  of  a  dream, 
The  tree-clad  hills,  the  isles  and  shore, 

Of  wild  Ohio's  winding  stream. 

Out  on  the  wave  while  sweeping  down 

The  boatman  trod  his  little  deck, 
And  dreamed,  while  lay  his  all  around, 

Of  strange  adventure,  storm,  and  wreck. 
That  strain  he  wound  his  way  to  cheer 

In  dewy  eve  and  golden  morn ; 
The  startled  Indian  paused  to  hear, 

In  echoes  sweet,  that  simple  horn. 
12 


178  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

He  came,  rough  courier  of  the  men, 

The  thronging  thousands  pressing  on, 
With  axes  ringing  in  the  glen, 

And  camps  the  gleaming  hills  upon. 
Gone  are  the  forests,  gone  the  race, 

The  dusky  shadows  of  the  shore ; 
The  hum  of  busy  life  keeps  pace 

To  music  of  the  steamer's  roar. 

0  boatman,  wind  thy  horn  again, 
The  simple  music  of  the  heart; 

What  memories  live  along  its  strain, 

And  into  being  softly  start ! 
The  wood-crowned  hills,  the  isles,  the  stream, 

In  sweetest  musings  wide  expand ; 

1  see  as  in  a  summer's  dream 
The  romance  of  my  native  land- 


THE  OLD   DEACON'S   LAMENT. 

YES,  I  Ve  been  a  deacon  of  our  church 

Nigh  on  to  fifty  year, 
Walked  in  the  way  of  dooty,  too, 

And  kep'  my  conscience  clear. 
I  've  watched  the  children  growin*  up, 

Seen  brown  locks  turnin'  gray, 
But  never  saw  sech  doin's  yet 

As  those  I  Ve  seen  to-day. 

This  church  was  built  by  godly  men 

To  glorify  the  Lord, 
In  seventeen  hundred  eighty-eight ; 

Folks  could  n't  then  afford 
Carpets,  cushings,  and  sech  like  — 

The  seats  were  jest  plain  wood, 
Too  narrer  for  the  sleepy  ones ; 

In  prayer  we  allus  stood. 

And  when  the  hymns  were  given  out, 

I  tell  you  it  was  grand 
To  hear  our  leader  start  the  tunes, 

With  tunin'-fork  in  hand  ! 
Then  good  old  "  China,"  "  Hear,"  and  all, 

Were  heard  on  Sabbath  days, 
And  men  and  women,  boys  and  girls, 

J'ined  in  the  song  of  praise. 

But  that  old  pulpit  was  my  pride  — 
Jest  eight  feet  from  the  ground 

They  'd  reared  it  up  —  on  either  side 
A  narrer  stairs  went  down ; 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST. 

The  front  and  ends  were  fitly  carved 

With  Scripter  stories  all,  — 
Findin'  of  Moses,  Jacob's  dream, 

And  sinful  Adam's  fall. 

Just  room  inside  to  put  a  cheer, 

The  Bible  on  the  ledge 
(I  '11  own  I  did  git  narvous  when 

He  shoved  it  to  the  edge). 
There  week  by  week  the  parson  stood 

The  Scripter  to  expound  ; 
There,  man  and  boy,  I  've  sot  below, 

And  not  a  fault  was  found. 

Of  course  I  Ve  seen  great  changes  made, 

And  fought  agenst  'em  too  ; 
And  first  a  choir  was  interdooced, 

Then  cushings  in  each  pew ; 
Next,  boughten  carpet  for  the  floor  ; 

And  then,  that  very  year, 
We  got  our  new  melodeon 

And  the  big  shandyleer. 

Well,  well !     I  tried  to  keep  things  straight  - 

I  went  to  ev'ry  meetin' 
And  voted  "  No  "  to  all  they  said, 

And  found  my  influ'nce  fleetin'. 
At  last  the  worst  misfortin'  fell  — 

I  must  blame  Deacon  Brown ; 
He  helped  the  young  folks  when  they  said 

The  pulpit  should  come  down. 

They  laughed  at  all  those  pious  scenes 

I  'd  found  so  edifyin' ; 
Said,  "  When  the  parson  rose  to  preach, 

He  looked  a'most  like  flyin' ;  " 
Said  that  "  Elijah's  chariot 

Jest  half-way  up  had  tarried ;  " 
And  Deacon  Brown  sot  by  and  laughed,— 

And  so  the  p'int  was  carried. 

This  was  last  week.     The  carpenters 

Have  nearly  made  an  end  — 
Excoose  my  feelin's.     Seems  to  me 

As  ef  I  'd  lost  a  friend. 
"  It  made  their  necks  ache,  lookin'  up," 

Was  what  the  folks  did  say  ; 
More  lookin'  up  would  help  us  all 

In  this  degin'rate  day. 

The  church  won't  never  seem  the  same 

(I  'm  half  afraid)  to  me, 
Under  the  preachin'  of  the  truth 

I  Ve  ben  so  used  to  be. 


l8o  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  now  to  see  our  parson  stand, 

Like  any  common  man, 
With  jest  a  railin'  round  his  desk  — 

I  don't  believe  I  can ! 

MRS.  E.  T.  CORBETT. 


FOREVER. 

FOREVER  and  ever  the  reddening  leaves 

Float  to  the  sodden  grasses, 
Forever  and  ever  the  shivering  trees 
Cower  and  shriek  to  the  chilling  breeze 
That  sweeps  from  the  far-off  sudden  seas, 

To  wither  them  as  it  passes. 

Forever  and  ever  the  low  gray  sky 

Stoops  o'er  the  sorrowful  earth ; 
Forever  and  ever  the  steady  rain 
Falls  on  bare  bleak  hill  and  barren  plain, 
And  flashes  on  roof  and  window-pane, 

And  hisses  upon  the  hearth. 

Forever  and  ever  the  weary  thoughts 

Are  tracing  the  selfsame  track 
Forever  and  ever,  to  and  fro, 
On  the  old  unchanging  road  they  go, 
Through  dreaming  and  waking,  through  joy  and  woe, 

Calling  the  dead  hours  back. 

Forever  and  ever  the  tired  heart 

Bonders  o'er  the  evil  done  ; 
Forever  and  ever  through  cloud  and  gleam, 
Tracing  the  course  of  the  strong  life-stream, 
And  dreary  and  dull  as  the  broken  dream, 

Forever  the  rain  rains  on. 


THE  WANDERER. 
(Liites  written  on  recrossing  the  Rocky  Mountains  in  winter  after  many  years.) 

LONG  years  ago  I  wandered  here, 
In  the  midsummer  of  the  year  — 

Life's  summer  too. 
A  score  of  horsemen  here  we  rode, 
The  mountain  world  its  glories  showed, 

All  fair  to  view. 

These  scenes,  in  glowing  colors  drest, 
Mirrored  the  life  within  my  breast, — 
Its  world  of  hope. 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  l8l 

The  whispering  woods  and  fragrant  breeze 
That  stirred  the  grass  in  verdant  seas 
On  billowy  slope, 

And  glistening  crag  in  sunlit  sky, 

'Mid  snowy  clouds  piled  mountains  high, 

Were  joys  to  me ; 
My  path  was  o'er  the  prairie  wide, 
Or  here  on  grander  mountain  side, 

To  choose,  all  free. 

The  rose  that  waved  in  morning  air, 
That  spread  its  dewy  fragrance  there 

In  careless  bloom, 
Gave  to  my  heart  its  ruddiest  hue, 
O'er  my  glad  life  its  color  threw, 

And  sweet  perfume. 

Now  changed  the  scene  and  changed  the  eyes 
That  here  once  looked  on  glowing  skies 

Where  summer  smiled ; 
These  riven  trees  and  wind-swept  plain 
Now  show  the  winter's  dread  domain  — 

Its  fury  wild. 

The  rocks  rise  black  from  storm-packed  snow, 
All  checked  the  river's  pleasant  flow, 

Vanished  the  bloom ; 
These  dreary  wastes  of  frozen  plain 
Reflect  my  bosom's  life  again, 

Now  lonesome  gloom. 

The  buoyant  hopes  and  busy  life 
Have  ended  all  in  hateful  strife 

And  thwarted  aim. 

The  world's  rude  contact  kills  the  rose, 
No  more  its  radiant  color  shows 

False  roads  to  fame. 

Backward  amid  the  twilight  glow 
Some  lingering  spots  yet  brightly  show 

On  hard  roads  won 

Where  still  some  grand  peaks  mark  the  way, 
Touched  by  the  light  of  parting  day 

And  memory's  sun. 

But  here  thick  clouds  the  mountains  hide, 
The  dim  horizon,  bleak  and  wide, 

No  pathway  shows. 
And  rising  gusts  and  darkening  sky 
Tell  of  "the  night  that  cometh "  nigh 

The  brief  day's  close. 
LittelFs  Living  Age.  ANONYMOUS. 

(A scribed  by  the  N.  Y.  Evening  Post 
to  General  John  C.  Fremont.) 


182  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


REST. 

LOVE,  give  me  one  of  thy  dear  hands  to  hold, 

Take  thou  my  tired  head  upon  thy  breast, 
Then  sing  me  that  sweet  song  we  loved  of  old, 

The  dear,  soft  song  about  our  little  nest. 
We  knew  the  song  before  the  nest  was  ours  ; 

We  sang  the  song  when  first  the  nest  we  found ; 
We  loved  the  song  in  happy  after-hours 

When  peace  came  to  us  and  content  profound 
Then  sing  that  olden  song  to  me  to-night, 

While  I,  reclining  on  thy  faithful  breast, 
See  happy  visions  in  the  frail  firelight, 

And  my  whole  soul  is  satisfied  with  rest. 
Better  than  all  our  bygone  dreams  of  bliss 
Are  deep  content  and  rest  secure  as  this. 

What  though  we  missed  love's  golden  summer-time, 

His  autumn  fruits  were  ripe  when  we  had  leave 
To  enter  joy's  wide  vineyard  in  our  prime, 

Good  guerdon  for  our  waiting  to  receive. 
Love  gave  us  no  frail  pledge  of  summer  flowers, 

But  side  by  side  we  reaped  the  harvest  field ; 
Now  side  by  side  we  pass  the  winter  hours, 

And  day  by  day  new  blessings  are  revealed. 
The  heyday  of  our  youth,  its  roseate  glow, 

Its  high  desires  and  cravings  manifold, 
The  raptures  and  delights  of  long  ago, 

Have  passed ;  but  we  have  truer  joys  to  hold. 
Sing  me  the  dear  old  song  about  the  nest, 
Our  blessed  home,  our  little  ark  of  rest. 


THE  LOST  BABIES. 

COME,  my  wife,  put  down  the  Bible, 

Lay  your  glasses  on  the  book ; 
Both  of  us  are  bent  and  aged  — 

Backward,  mother,  let  us  look. 
This  is  still  the  same  old  homestead 

Where  I  brought  you  long  ago, 
When  the  hair  was  bright  with  sunshine 

That  is  now  like  winter's  snow. 
Let  us  talk  about  the  babies, 

As  we  sit  here  all  alone ; 
Such  a  merry  troop  of  youngsters,  — 

How  we  lost  them  one  by  one. 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  183 

Jack,  the  first  of  all  pur  party, 

Came  to  us  one  winter's  night. 
Jack,  you  said,  should  be  a  parson, 

Long  before  he  saw  the  light. 
Do  you  see  the  great  cathedral, 

Filled  the  transept  and  the  nave, 
Hear  the  organ  gladly  pealing, 

Watch  the  silken  hangings  wave  ? 
See  the  priest  in  robes  of  office, 

With  the  altar  at  his  back,  — 
Would  you  think  that  gifted  preacher 

Could  be  our  own  little  Jack  ? 

Then,  a  girl  with  curly  tresses 

Used  to  climb  upon  my  knee 
Like  a  little  fairy  princess, 

Ruling  at  the  age  of  three. 
With  the  years  there  came  a  wedding  — 

How  your  fond  heart  swelled  with  pride 
When  the  lord  of  all  the  country 

Chose  your  baby  for  his  bride  ! 
Watch  that  stately  carriage  coming, 

And  the  form  reclining  there,  — 
Would  you  think  that  brilliant  lady 

Could  be  our  own  little  Clare  ? 


Then,  the  last,  a  blue-eyed  youngster,— 

I  can  hear  him  prattling  now,  — 
Such  a  strong  and  sturdy  fellow, 

With  his  broad  and  honest  brow. 
How  he  used  to  love  his  mother ! 

Ah !  I  see  your  trembling  lip  1 
He  is  far  off  on  the  water, 

Captain  of  a  royal  ship. 
See  the  bronze  upon  his  forehead, 

Hear  the  voice  of  stern  command,  — 
That 's  the  boy  who  clung  so  fondly 

To  his  mother's  gentle  hand. 

Ah !  my  wife,  we  7ve  lost  the  babies, 

Ours  so  long  and  ours  alone. 
What  are  we  to  those  great  people, 

Stately  men  and  women  grown  ? 
Seldom  do  we  even  see  them  ; 

Yes,  a  bitter  tear-drop  starts 
As  we  sit  here  in  the  firelight, 

Lonely  hearth  and  lonely  hearts. 
All  their  lives  are  full  without  us ; 

They  '11  stop  long  enough  one  day 
Just  to  lay  us  in  the  churchyard, 

Then  they  '11  each  go  on  his  way. 


184  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


GONE. 

WHEN  the  morning  fair  and  sweet 
Glimmers  through  the  dusky  pane, 

For  the  tread  of  pattering  feet, 
Ah !  I  list  in  vain. 

Not  an  echo  haunts  the  hall  — 

Oh,  each  gladsome,  light  footfall ; 

Not  an  echo  wakes  the  stair  — 

Silence,  silence  everywhere  ; 

They  are  gone ! 

When  I  leave  my  sleepless  bed, 
Passing  from  the  chambered  gloom, 

No  red  cheek  and  flower-like  head 
Lift  to  me  their  bloom  ; 

Only  darkness  in  the  hall 

Lingers  like  a  clouded  pall ; 

Round  the  threshold,  o'er  the  stair  — 

Darkness,  darkness  everywhere ; 
They  are  gone ! 

When  from  out  the  toilsome  mart, 

Hopeless,  weary,  I  return, 
Oh,  these  wasting  fires  at  heart  — 

How  they  burn  —  they  burn  ! 
Passionate  grief  seemed  sunk  in  dearth, 
But  beside  my  ruined  hearth 
All  the  anguish,  all  the  pain, 
Bursts  in  flaming  woe  again  — 
They  are  gone  ! 

When  the  twilight  hour  comes  down, 
Of  all  hours  the  calmest,  best, 

Hovering  like  an  angel's  crown 
O'er  the  day's  unrest, 

Whence  this  alien,  brooding  air? 

Whence  this  whisper  of  despair  ? 

'Tis  but  Heartbreak's  hollow  tone 

Muttering,  "  Canst  thou  live  alone  ? 
They  are  gone  \  " 

Gone  !     In  silences  of  night 

Hapless  hands  I  stretch  to  find 
Vacant  spaces  left  and  right, 

Vacant  as  the  wind. 
While  a  mother's  moan  is  heard, 
Low,  as  if  some  wounded  bird, 
Sore  of  wing  and  sore  of  breast, 
Wailed  above  her  shattered  nest: 
All  are  gone  I 


ECHOES  OP  THE  PAST.  185 


MOTHER. 

WHEN  she  undid  her  hair  at  night, 

About  the  time  for  lying  down, 
She  came  and  knelt.     I  was  so  small, 
There  in  my  bed,  her  curls  did  fall 
All  over  me,  light  gold  and  brown. 

I  fell  asleep  amid  her  prayers. 

Her  fair  young  face  (far  off  it  seems), 
Her  girlish  voice,  her  kisses  sweet, 
The  patter  of  her  busy  feet, 

Passed  with  me  into  charming  dreams. 

And  when  I  woke  at  merry  morn, 

Through  her  gold  hair  I  saw  the  sun 
Flame  strong,  shine  glad,  and  glorify 
The  great,  good  world.     Oh,  never  can  I 
Forget  her  words,  "  My  darling  one  ! " 

Ah !  checkered  years  since  then  have  crept 
Past  her  and  me,  and  we  have  known* 

Some  sorrow  and  much  tempered  joy. 

Far  into  manhood  stands  her  boy, 
And  her  gold  hair  snow-white  is  blown. 

The  world  has  changed  by  slow  degrees, 

And  as  old  days  recede,  alas  ! 
So  much  of  trouble  have  the  new, 
Those  rare,  far  joys  grow  dim  seen  through 

Sad  times  as  through  a  darkened  glass. 

But  just  this  morning  when  I  woke, 

How  lovingly  my  lips  were  kissed  ! 
How  chaste  and  clear  the  sunlight  shone 
On  mother's  hair,  like  gold-dust  sown 
Athwart  thin  clouds  of  silver  mist  1 


AT   SEA. 

WORN  voyagers,  who  watch  for  land 
Across  the  endless  wastes  of  sea, 

Who  gaze  before  and  on  each  hand, 
Why  look  ye  not  to  what  ye  flee  ? 

The  stars  by  which  the  sailors  steer 
Not  always  rise  before  the  prow ; 

Though  forward  nought  but  clouds  appear, 
Behind,  they  may  be  breaking  now. 


1 86  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

What  though  we  may  not  turn  again 
To  shores  of  childhood  that  we  leave, 

Are  those  old  signs  we  followed  vain? 
Can  guides  so  oft  found  true  deceive  ? 

Oh,  sail  we  to  the  south  or  north, 

Oh,  sail  we  to  the  east  or  west, 
The  port  from  which  we  first  put  forth 

Is  our  heart's  home,  is  our  life's  best. 

F.  W.  BOURDILLON 


MY   LOST  LOVE. 

WHEN  the  silence  of  the  midnight 

Closes  round  my  lonely  room, 
And  faintly  struggling  through  the  curtains 

Mystic  moonbeams  light  the  gloom ; 
When  above  the  fevered  fancies 

Of  the  weary  heart  and  brain 
Kindly  slumber,  creeping  near  me, 

Reasserts  her  welcome  reign ; 
In  the  seeming 
Of  my  dreaming, 
In  all  the  glow  that  used  to  be, 
My  lost  love  comes  back  to  me. 

When  the  fair,  delusive  phantom 

Fades  before  the  wakening  dawn, 
And  the  rosy  smile  of  sunrise 

Gleams  athwart  the  dew-drenched  lawn; 
Gazing  from  the  open  lattice, 

Yearning  memory  pictures  there, 
Shadowed  by  enlacing  branches, 

Sweet  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair ; 
And  the  sunlight 
Takes  the  one  light 
That  it  had  for  me  erewhile 
In  my  lost  love's  happy  smile. 

In  the  glory  of  the  noontide, 

Her  low  ringing  laugh  I  hear ; 
In  the  whispering  of  the  leaflets, 

Her  light  footstep  springing  near ; 
In  each  snow-white  lily's  swaying 

Is  reflection  of  her  grace  ; 
In  each  rose's  opening  beauty 

Shines  for  me  her  fair  young  face ; 
Till  through  the  falling 
Shadows  calling, 
As  even  darkens  hill  and  plain, 
I  hear  my  lost  love's  voice  again. 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  187 

So  the  hours  are  peopled  for  me 

Through  the  haunted  days  and  nights ; 
While  fancy  mocks  my  lonely  vigils 
With  the  ghost  of  dead  delights  j 
And  I  let  loud  life  sweep  by  me, 
Dreaming  by  the  silent  hearth, 
Where  the  vision  of  my  darling 
Gives  old  gladness  back  to  earth : 
While  through  each  gloaming 
Softly  coming, 

In  sweet,  false  lights  of  joy  and  truth, 
My  lost  love  gives  me  back  my  youth. 
All  the  Year  Round. 


RETROSPECTION. 

WHEN  we  see  our  dream-ships  slipping 

From  the  verge  of  youth's  green  slope - 
Loosening  from  the  transient  moorings 

At  the  golden  shore  of  hope  — 
Vanishing,  like  airy  bubbles, 

On  the  rough,  tried  sea  of  care, 
Then  the  soul  grows  sick  with  longing 

That  is  almost  wild  despair. 

Far  behind  lies  sunny  childhood  — 

Fields  of  flowers  our  feet  have  trod 
When  our  vision-bounded  Eden 

Held  no  mystery  but  God ; 
When  in  dreams  we  spoke  with  angels, 

When  awake,  with  brooks  and  birds, 
Reading  in  the  breeze  and  sunshine 

Love's  unspoken,  tender  words. 

When  the  stars  were  lighted  candles 

Shining  through  God's  floor  of  blue, 
And  the  moon  was  but  a  window 

For  the  angels  to  look  through ; 
Clouds  took  shape  of  wondrous  seeming, 

Fairies  hid  themselves  in  flowers  ; 
Morning-rise  and  sunset  glories 

Were  but  doors  to  heaven's  bowers. 

Ah !  the  sweet  conceits  and  fancies 

With  which  sunny  childhood  teems  1 
T  is  not  strange  the  sickened  spirit 

Clasps  the  shadows  of  such  dreams ; 
That,  when  life  is  stern  and  real, 

Hope  is  crowded  out  by  fears, 
Love  grown  wearied  of  her  vigils, 

Back  we  look  with  bitter  tears. 


1 88  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Life  is  but  a  rugged  hillside 

When  cool  science  puts  to  flight 
Childhood's  treasured  love  of  dreaming 

Tinted  all  with  rosy  light. 
For  though  years  may  bring  us  wisdom, 

Distrust  poisons  holy  truth ; 
So  we  turn,  soul-sick  with  yearning, 

To  the  sweet  beliefs  of  youth  ! 

And  sometimes  we  question  sadly, 

Wherefore  all  life's  bitter  pain  ? 
Are  our  dreams  of  hope  and  gladness  — • 

Are  our  strivings  all  in  vain  ? 
Shall  we  find  the  scattered  roses 

That  our  careless  hands  have  lost  ? 
Wander  to  the  thornless  pathways 

That  our  feet  so  thoughtless  crossed  ? 

And  the  answer,  deep  and  solemn, 

Seems  to  vibrate  through  all  space : 
Life  is  but  a  course  of  trial, 

Childhood  starts  and  ends  the  race. 
For  the  harvests  faithful  gathered 

Through  the  strife  of  toil  and  tears, 
For  the  burdens  borne  in  patience, 

Joy  will  crown  the  endless  years. 


THE  PASTOR'S   REVERIE. 

THE  pastor  sits  in  his  easy-chair, 

With  the  Bible  upon  his  knee : 
From  gold  to  purple  the  clouds  in  the  west 

Are  changing  momently ; 
The  shadows  lie  in  the  valleys  below, 

And  hide  in  the  curtain's  fold ; 
And  the  page  grows  dim  whereon  he  reads, 

"  I  remember  the  days  of  old." 

"  Not  clear  nor  dark,"  as  the  Scripture  saith, 

The  pastor's  memories  are  ; 
No  day  that  is  gone  is  shadowless, 

No  night  was  without  its  star  : 
But  mingled  bitter  and  sweet  hath  been 

The  portion  of  his  cup ; 
"  The  hand  that  in  love  hath  smitten/'  he  saith, 

"  In  love  hath  bound  us  up." 

Fleet  flies  his  thought  over  many  a  field 

Of  stubble  and  snow  and  bloom, 
And  now  it  trips  through  a  festival, 

And  now  it  halts  at  a  tomb  ; 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  189 

Young  faces  smile  in  his  reverie 

Of  those  that  are  young  no  more, 
And  voices  are  heard  that  only  come 

With  the  winds  from  a  far-off  shore. 

He  thinks  of  the  day  when  first,  with  fear 

And  faltering  lips,  he  stood 
To  speak  in  the  sacred  place  the  Word 

To  the  waiting  multitude  ; 
He  walks  again  to  the  house  of  God, 

With  the  voice  of  joy  and  praise, 
With  many  whose  feet  long  time  have  pressed 

Heaven's  safe  and  blessed  ways. 

He  enters  again  the  homes  of  toil, 

And  joins  in  the  homely  chat ; 
He  stands  in  the  shop  of  the  artisan ; 

'He  sits  where  the  Master  sat, 
At  the  poor  man's  fire  and  the  rich  man's  feast. 

But  who  to-day  are  the  poor, 
And  who  are  the  rich  ?    Ask  Him  who  keeps 

The  treasures  that  ever  endure. 

Once  more  the  green  and  grove  resound 

With  the  merry  children's  din  ; 
He  hears  their  shout  at  the  Christmas  Tide, 

When  Santa  Glaus  stalks  in. 
Once  more  he  lists  while  the  camp-fire  roars 

On  the  distant  mountain-side, 
Or,  proving  apostleship,  plies  the  brook 

Where  the  fierce  young  troutlings  hide. 

And  now  he  beholds  the  wedding  train 

To  the  altar  slowly  move, 
And  the  solemn  words  are  said  that  seal 

The  sacrament  of  love. 
Anon  at  the  font  he  meets  once  more 

The  tremulous  youthful  pair, 
With  a  white-robed  cherub  crowing  response 

To  the  consecrating  prayer. 

By  the  couch  of  pain  he  kneels  again ; 

Again  the  thin  hand  lies 
Cold  in  his  palm,  while  the  last  far  look 

Steals  into  the  steadfast  eyes  ; 
And  now  the  burdens  of  hearts  that  break 

Lie  heavy  upon  his  own,  — 
The  widow's  woe,  and  the  orphan's  cry, 

And  the  desolate  mother's  moan. 

So  blithe  and  glad,  so  heavy  and  sad, 

Are  the  days  that  are  no  more  ; 
So  mournfully  sweet  are  the  sounds  that  float 

With  the  winds  from  a  far-off  shore. 


1 90  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

For  the  pastor  has  learned  what  meaneth  the  word 

That  is  given  him  to  keep, — 
"  Rejoice  with  them  that  do  rejoice, 

And  weep  with  them  that  weep." 

It  is  not  in  vain  that  he  has  trod 

This  lonely  and  toilsome  way, 
It  is  not  in  vain  that  he  has  wrought 

In  the  vineyard  all  the  day ; 
For  the  soul  that  gives  is  the  soul  that  lives, 

And  bearing  another's  load 
Doth  lighten  your  own,  and  shorten  the  way, 

And  brighten  the  homeward  road. 

REV.  WASHINGTON  GLADDEN, 


HAWTHORN. 

I  SEE  her  where  the  budding  May 
Throws  shadows  on  the  grassy  way 

And  flecks  her  robe  of  white  ; 
Unseen  I  watch  her  as  she  stands, 
With  fragrant  hawthorn  in  her  hands, 

A  vision  of  delight. 

She  stays,  but  will  not  tarry  long 
To  hear  the  thrush's  vernal  song 

In  blossom-boughs  above ; 
And  in  my  sheltered  garden-seat 
I  too  can  hear  the  carol  sweet 

Of  songster's  happy  love. 

From  out  the  leaves  that  shade  my  face 
I  watch  her  in  her  girlish  grace, 

The  daughter  of  my  friend, 
On  whose  sweet  life,  for  whose  sweet  sake, 
Love  hath  such  precious  things  at  stake, 

In  whom  such  heart  ties  blend. 

My  May-day  maiden,  thought  runs  back 
O'er  that  long-trodden,  sunlit  track, 

My  own  evanished  youth, 
When  I,  like  her,  was  young  and  fair, 
Like  her,  untouched  by  worldly  care, 

Unscarred  by  broken  truth. 

Like  her,  with  sunshine  on  my  way, 
With  scented  blossoms  of  life's  May 

Plucked  ready  for  my  hand  ; 
Like  her,  embarked  on  life's  full  tide 
For  joy's  glad  port,  and  by  my  side 

True  love  at  my  command. 


ECHOES  OF   THE  PAST.  191 

But  shadows  dimmed  my  summer  day, 
The  blossoms  of  my  early  May 

Lie  buried  in  a  grave. 
Hope's  tide  ebbed  out  afar  from  port, 
And  left  my  little  bark  the  sport 

Of  fortune's  wind  and  wave. 

Ah,  well !  the  thrush's  song  is  done, 
And  she  steps  forward  in  the  sun, 

She  comes  toward  my  bower, 
To  glad  my  weary,  tear-dimmed  eyes, 
To  lay  before  me  as  a  prize 

Her  spray  of  hawthorn  flower. 

Dear  heart !  she  brings  me  more  than  May  j 
The  sunlight  of  a  far-off  day 

Shines  on  me  from  her  face. 
Her  heart  renews  for  mine  the  truth, 
The  hope  and  springtide  of  its  youth 

In  all  their  early  grace. 

She  looks  at  me  with  eyes  of  love 
Like  those  the  turf  has  lain  above 

For  many  a  weary  day  ; 
God  bless  her !  for  she  brings  again, 
Across  a  lifetime's  silent  pain, 

My  unforgotten  May. 
All  the  Year  Round. 


THE  ORCHARD-LANDS  OF  LONG  AGO. 

THE  orchard-lands  of  Long  Ago ! 
O  drowsy  winds,  awake  and  blow 
The  snowy  blossoms  back  to  me, 
And  all  the  buds  that  used  to  be  ! 
Blow  back  along  the  grassy  ways 
Of  truant  feet,  and  lift  the  haze 
Of  happy  summer  from  the  trees 
That  trail  their  tresses  in  the  seas 
Of  grain  that  float  and  overflow 
The  orchard-lands  of  Long  Ago  1 

Blow  back  the  melody  that  slips 

In  lazy  laughter  from  the  lips 

That  marvel  much  if  any  kiss 

Is  sweeter  than  the  apple's  is. 

Blow  back  the  twitter  of  the  birds  — 

The  lisp,  the  titter,  and  the  words 

Of  merriment  that  found  the  shine 

Of  summer-time  a  glorious  wine 

That  drenched  the  leaves  that  loved  it  so 

In  orchard-lands  of  Long  Ago  1 


192  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

O  memory !  alight  and  sing 
Where  rosy-bellied  pippins  cling, 
And  golden  russets  glint  and  gleam 
As  in  the  old  Arabian  dream 
The  fruits  of  that  enchanted  tree 
The  glad  Aladdin  robbed  for  me  ! 
And,  drowsy  winds,  awake  and  fan 
My  blood  as  when  it  overran 
A  heart  ripe  as  the  apples  grow 
In  orchard-lands  of  Long  Ago. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


LAVENDER. 

How  prone  we  are  to  hide  and  hoard 
Each  little  treasure  time  has  stored, 

To  tell  of  happy  hours ! 
We  lay  aside  with  tender  care 
A  tattered  book,  a  lock  of  hair, 

A  bunch  of  faded  flowers. 

When  death  has  led  with  silent  hand 
Our  darlings  to  the  "  Silent  Land," 

Awhile  we  sit  bereft ; 
But  time  goes  on ;  anon  we  rise, 
Our  dead  are  buried  from  our  eyes, 

We  gather  what  is  left. 

The  books  they  loved,  the  songs  they  sang, 
The  little  flute  whose  music  rang 

So  cheerily  of  old ; 

The  pictures  we  had  watched  them  paint, 
The  last  plucked  flower,  with  odor  faint, 

That  fell  from  fingers  cold. 

We  smooth  and  fold  with  reverent  care 
The  robes  they  living  used  to  wear ; 

And  painful  pulses  stir 
As  o'er  the  relics  of  our  dead, 
With  bitter  rain  of  tears,  we  spread 

Pale  purple  lavender. 

And  when  we  come  in  after  years, 
With  only  tender  April  tears 

On  cheeks  once  white  with  care, 
To  look  on  treasures  put  away 
Despairing  on  that  far-off  day, 

A  subtile  scent  is  there. 


ECHOES  OP  THE  PAST.  193 

Dew-wet  and  fresh  we  gathered  them, 
These  fragrant  flowers ;  now  every  stem 

Is  bare  of  all  its  bloom : 
Tear-wet  and  sweet  we  strewed  them  here 
To  lend  pur  relics,  sacred,  dear, 

Their  beautiful  perfume. 

The  scent  abides  on  book  and  lute, 
On  curl  and  flower,  and  with  its  mute 

But  eloquent  appeal 
It  wins  from  us  a  deeper  sob 
For  our  lost  dead,  a  sharper  throb 

Than  we  are  wont  to  feel. 

It  whispers  of  the  "  long  ago ; " 
Its  love,  its  loss,  its  aching  woe, 

And  buried  sorrows  stir ; 
And  tears  like  those  we  shed  of  old 
Roll  down  our  cheeks  as  we  behold 

Our  faded  lavender. 


WHILE  WE  MAY. 

THE  hands  are  such  dear  hands ; 

They  are  so  full ;  they  turn  at  our  demands 

So  often ;  they  reach  out, 

With  trifles  scarcely  thought  about, 

So  many  times ;  they  do 

So  many  things  for  me,  for  you  — 

If  their  fond  wills  mistake, 

We  well  may  bend,  not  break. 

They  are  such  fond,  frail  lips 

That  speak  to  us.     Pray,  if  love  strips 

Them  of  discretion  many  times, 

Or  if  they  speak  too  slow,  or  quick,  such  crimes 
We  may  pass  by ;  for  we  may  see 
Days  not  far  off  when  those  small  words  may  be 

Held  not  as  slow,  or  quick,  or  out  of  place,  but  dear, 

Because  the  lips  are  no  more  here. 

They  are  such  dear,  familiar  feet  that  go 
Along  the  path  with  ours,  —  feet  fast  or  slow, 
And  trying  to  keep  pace,  —  if  they  mistake, 
Or  tread  upon  some  flower  that  we  would  take 

Upon  our  breast,  or  bruise  some  reed, 

Or  crush  poor  Hope  until  it  bleed, 

We  may  be  mute, 
Not  turning  quickly  to  impute 

13 


194  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Grave  fault ;  —  for  they  and  we 
Have  such  a  little  way  to  go,  —  can  be 
Together  such  a  little  while  along  the  way, 
We  will  be  patient  while  we  may. 

So  many  little  faults  we  find, 
We  see  them  ;  for  not  blind 
Is  Love.     We  see  them,  but  if  you  and  I 
Perhaps  remember  them  some  by  and  fy, 

They  will  not  be 

Faults  then  —  grave  faults  to  you  and  me, 
But  just  odd  ways,  —  mistakes,  or  even  less,  — 

Remembrances  to  bless. 
Days  change  so  many  things,  —  yes,  hours, 
We  see  so  differently  in  sun  and  showers. 

Mistaken  words  to-night 

May  be  so  cherished  by  to-morrow's  light. 

We  may  be  patient ;  for  we  know 

There 's  such  a  little  way  to  go. 

SUSAN  COOLIDGE. 


THE   BOTTOM   DRAWER. 

IN  the  best  chamber  of  the  house, 

Shut  up  in  dim,  uncertain  light, 
There  stood  an  antique  chest  of  drawers, 

Of  foreign  wood,  with  brasses  bright. 
One  day  a  woman,  frail  and  gray, 

Stepped  totteringly  across  the  floor  — 
"  Let  in,"  said  she,  "  the  light  of  day, 

Then,  Jean,  unlock  the  bottom  drawer." 

The  girl,  in  all  youth's  loveliness, 

Knelt  down  with  eager,  curious  face ; 
Perchance  she  dreamt  of  Indian  silks, 

Of  jewels,  and  of  rare  old  lace. 
But  when  the  summer  sunshine  fell 

Upon  the  treasures  hoarded  there, 
The  tears  rushed  to  her  tender  eyes, 

Her  heart  was  solemn  as  a  prayer. 

"  Dear  Grandmamma,"  she  softly  sighed, 

Lifting  a  withered  rose  and  palm  ; 
But  on  the  elder  face  was  nought 

But  sweet  content  and  peaceful  calm. 
Leaning  upon  her  staff,  she  gazed 

Upon  a  baby's  half- worn  shoe ; 
A  little  frock  of  finest  lawn  ; 

A  hat  with  tiny  bows  of  blue ; 


ECHOES  OP   THE  PAST.  195 

A  ball  made  fifty  years  ago ; 

A  little  glove ;  a  tasselled  cap ; 
A  half-done  "  long  division  "  sum ; 

Some  school-books  fastened  with  a  strap. 
She  touched  them  all,  with  trembling  lips — 

"  How  much,"  she  said,  "  the  heart  can  bear ! 
Ah,  Jean  1   I  thought  that  I  should  die 

The  day  that  first  I  laid  them  there. 

"  But  now  it  seems  so  good  to  know 

That  through  these  weary,  troubled  years 
Their  hearts  have  been  untouched  by  grief, 

Their  eyes  have  been  unstained  by  tears. 
Dear  Jean,  we  see  with  clearer  sight 

When  earthly  love  is  almost  o'er ; 
Those  children  wait  me  in  the  skies, 

For  whom  I  locked  that  sacred  drawer." 

MARY  A.  BARR. 


PART  VII. 


When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered^ 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight ; 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted. 

And,  like  phantoms  grim  andtall. 
Shad o-ws  from  the  fitful  firelight 

Dance  upon  the  parlor  "wall; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted,  . 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more. 

LONGFELLOW. 


PART  VII. 


TWILIGHT'S   HOUR. 

THE  sunlight  on  a  waveless  sea  — 
The  softened  radiance  fadeth  slowly  ; 

The  folded  flower,  the  mist-crowned  tree, 
Proclaim  the  gathering  twilight  holy. 

It  is  the  hour  when  passion  bows  ; 

A  solemn  stillness  round  us  lingers  ; 
And  on  our  wildly  throbbing  brows 

We  feel  the  touch  of  angel  fingers. 

It  is  the  hour  when  lovers  fond 

(For  love  its  native  air  is  breathing) 

Drape  with  fair  hopes  life's  drear  beyond, 
Gay  garlands  for  the  future  wreathing. 

It  is  the  hour  when  in  far  land 
The  wanderer,  tired  of  ceaseless  roaming, 

Longs  for  the  clasp  of  kindred  hand, 

And  the  dear  home  enwrapt  in  gloaming. 

It  is  the  hour  when  mankind  hears, 
Amid  earth's  mingled  moans  and  laughter, 

Chords  which  will  swell  when  unborn  years 

Are  buried  in  the  great  hereafter. 
Chambers  *s  Journal.  W.  F.  E.  L 


THE  AFTERMATH. 

THE  glamour  of  the  after-light 
Lay  clear  and  fair  along  the  sky, 

And  made  the  pathway  eerie  bright 
As  home  we  wandered  —  thou  and  I. 


200  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

The  meadow  mists  were  lying  low, 

A  shadow  held  the  river-side, 
The  water  took  the  western  glow, 

And  peace,  gray  peace,  spread  far  and  wide. 

A  sober-heartedness  was  ours  — 
So  still  the  earth,  the  sky  so  strange  ; 

And  we  had  given  in  sunny  hours 

Our  youthful  hearts  their  widest  range. 

We  lingered  in  the  meadow  path, 
Touched  by  the  twilight's  silent  spell, 

While  from  the  sun's  fleet  aftermath 
A  subtile  glory  rose  and  fell. 

Dim,  wistful  thoughts  within  us  grew, 

Forebodings  of  the  life  to  be, 
Till  with  a  sudden  thrill  we  knew 

Time's  touch  of  immortality. 

For  all  the  wonder  and  the  awe, 

Far-widening  within  the  west, 
Seemed  with  a  mystic  power  to  draw 

Our  hearts  into  its  kindly  rest. 

Yet  still  it  faded,  faded  fast, 

And  night  crept  up  the  eastern  slope  j 

But  o'er  our  lives  a  strength  had  passed, 
And  left  us  with  a  larger  hope. 

So  home  we  wandered  —  thou  and  I  — 
That  night,  sweet  wife,  so  long  ago, 

And  still  we  watch  the  western  sky, 
And  strengthen  in  its  mystic  glow. 
Good  Words.  JAMES  HENDRY 


TWILIGHT  DREAMS. 

THEY  come  in  the  quiet  twilight  hour, 

When  the  weary  day  is  done, 
And  the  quick  light  leaps  from  the  glowing  heaps 

Of  wood  on  the  warm  hearthstone. 

When  the  household  sounds  have  died  away, 

And  the  rooms  are  silent  all, 
Save  the  clock's  brief  tick,  and  the  sudden  click 

Of  the  embers  as  they  fall ; 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT.  2OI 

They  come,  those  dreams  of  the  twilight  hour, 

To  me  with  their  noiseless  tread, 
A  tearful  band  by  the  guiding  hand 

Of  a  grave-eyed  spirit  led. 

There  is  no  voice  within  the  hall, 

No  footstep  on  the  floor  ; 
The  children's  laughter  is  hushed,  there  is 

No  hand  at  the  parlor  door. 

Like  fingers  tapping  eagerly 

Against  the  shuttered  frame, 
Where  the  trailing  rose  its  long  branch  throws, 

Beat  the  great  drops  of  rain. 

But  my  heart  heeds  not  the  rustling  leaves, 

Nor  the  rain-fall's  fitful  beat, 
Nor  the  wind's  low  sigh  as  it  hurries  by 

On  its  pauseless  path  and  fleet ; 

For  now  in  the  dusk  they  gather  round, 

The  visions  of  the  past, 
Arising  slow  in  the  dim  red  glow 

By  the  burning  pine-brands  cast. 

My  brow  is  calm  as  with  the  touch 

Of  an  angel's  passing  wing  ; 
They  breathe  no  word,  yet  my  soul  is  stirred 

By  the  messages  they  bring. 

Some  in  their  grasp  impalpable 

Bear  Eden's  cultured  flowers, 
That  sprang  in  gloom  from  the  tear-bathed  tomb 

Of  hope's  long-buried  hours. 

Some  from  the  font  of  memory, 

Lasting,  and  pure,  and  deep, 
Bring  waters  clear,  though  many  a  year 

Has  saddened  their  first  fresh  sweep; 

And  some  in  their  hands  of  shadow  bear, 
From  the  shrine  of  prayerful  thought, 

A  fragrance  blest  to  the  stricken  breast, 
With  balm  and  healing  fraught. 

The  night  wears  on,  the  hearth  burns  low, 

The  dreams  have  passed  away  ; 
But  the  heart  and  brow  are  strenghtened  now 

For  the  toil  of  coming  day. 
Chambers' s  Journal. 


202  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


YEARNING. 

OVER  the  west  the  glory  dies  away, 

Faint  rose-flecks  gleaming  in  the  darkening  sky; 

And  the  low  sounds  that  mark  the  close  of  day 
Rise  up  from  wood  and  upland  —  rise  and  die ; 

Soft  silence  falls  o'er  meadow,  hill,  and  grove, 

And  in  the  hush  I  want  you,  oh,  my  love. 

In  the  gay  radiance  of  the  morning  hour, 
In  the  warm  brooding  glory  of  the  noon, 

When  man  and  Nature,  in  their  prime  of  power, 
With  the  day's  fulness  blend  in  eager  tune, 

The  rush  of  life  forbids  the  pulse  to  move 

That  now,  in  yearning  passion,  wants  you,  love. 

Wants  you  to  watch  the  crimson  glow  and  fade 

Through  the  great  branches  of  the  broadening  lime ; 

Wants  you  to  feel  the  soft,  gray,  quiet  shade 
Lap  the  tired  world  in  blessed  eventime  ; 

Wants  you  to  whisper  :  "  Come,  your  power  to  prove, 

The  gloaming  needs  its  angel ;  come,  my  love." 
All  the  Year  Round. 


THE  MOTHER'S   BLESSING. 

THERE  in  her  high-backed  chair  she  sits, 

Sad-eyed  dame  with  the  silver  hair  ; 
The  shadows  lengthen,  the  daylight  flits, 
And  she  seems  to  listen,  as  still  she  knits, 
For  the  sound  of  the  step  on  the  silent  stair. 

The  lamps  flash  out  in  the  twilight  street, 
And  many  a  neighboring  casement  gleams, 

A  beacon  of  home  to  hurrying  feet ; 

But  the  white-haired  dame  in  the  high-backed  seat 
Heeds  them  not,  as  she  knits  and  dreams  — 

Dreams  of  a  boy,  long  years  ago, 
Clasped  her  neck  on  a  summer  day, 

Begged  her  blessing,  kissed  her,  and  so 

Fled  with  the  speed  of  a  hunted  doe 
Down  to  the  sea  and  sailed  away ! 

A  boy  with  an  eye  as  blue  and  bright 

As  the  cloudless  noon  of  a  tropic  sky ; 
A  fair  haired  lad,  and  his  heart  was  right  — 
Was  it  ten  ?     Yes,  ten  long  years  to-night  I 
Shall  I  bless  him  again  before  I  die  ? 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT.  203 

"  Here  at  my  knee  his  prayer  he  said  : 
'  Our  Father,  all  hallowed  be  thy  name ; 

Give  us  this  day  our  daily  bread,' 

Passing  my  hand  o'er  his  golden  head, 
While  oft  the  tears  in  his  blue  eyes  came." 

Hark  !  a  step  on  the  silent  stair  ! 

A  soft,  quick  step,  and  a  breathing  light ! 
A  form  kneels  low  by  the  high-backed  chair, 
And  lo  !  in  the  curls  of  her  boy's  fair  hair 

The  mother's  fingers  are  twined  to-night. 

Is  it  a  dream  ?  or  can  it  be, 

This  tall  man,  with  the  beard  of  gold, 
That  kneels  so  low  by  his  mother's  knee, 
Is  the  blue-eyed  boy  that  fled  to  sea 

That  sunny  morn  in  the  day  of  old  ? 

Yes,  it  is  he,  for  the  joyful  tears 

Drop  from  her  eyes  in  a  holy  rain ; 
"  Our  Father  "  anew  from  his  lips  she  hears, 
And  the  mother's  blessing  of  bygone  years 

Has  brought  her  prodigal  home  again. 


ELSWITHA. 

ELSWITHA  knitteth  the  stocking  blue 

In  the  flickering  firelight's  glow; 
Dyed  are  her  hands  in  its  ruddy  hue, 
And  it  glints  on  the  shining  needles  too, 

And  flushes  her  cap  of  snow. 

Elswitha  dreameth  a  waking  dream, 

As  busy  her  fingers  ply ; 
And  it  lights  her  eye  with  its  olden  gleam, 
For  the  world  seems  now  as  it  used  to  seem, 

And  the  things  far  off  are  nigh ! 

The  things  far  off  in  the  lapse  of  years, 

Dead  faces  and  loves  outgrown ; 
Oh,  many  a  form  at  her  side  appears, 
And  many  a  voice  in  her  soul  she  hears, 

And  many  a  long-hushed  tone. 

For  Memory  walks  through  her  halls  to-nightj 

A  torch  in  her  lifted  hand ; 
And  lo  !  at  the  sound  of  her  footsteps  light 
They  shake  them  free  from  the  dust  and  blight, 

And  trooping  around  her  stand. 


204  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Bright  curls  of  auburn  and  braids  of  brown, 

With  the  sunlight  sifted  through, 
And  foreheads  white  as  the  hawthorn's  crown, 
And  garlands  fresh  as  when  last  thrown  down, 

Ay,  fresher  in  scent  and  hue ! 

They  come  from  the  aisles  of  the  buried  past, 

From  the  faded  long  ago, 
From  sepulchres  old  and  dim  and  vast, 
They  come  with  their  grave-clothes  from  them  cast, 

To  stand  in  the  firelight  glow. 

And  weird  is  the  charm  they  weave,  I  trow  — 

Elswitha  is  young  and  fair, 
Gone  are  the  furrows  and  tear-stains  now, 
Gone  are  the  wrinkles  from  hand  and  brow, 

The  silver  from  shining  hair. 

Gone  are  the  years  with  their  heavy  weight 

(And  heavy  the  years  had  grown), 
For  Love  hath  entered  the  lists  with  Fate, 
And  Memory  needeth  not  name  nor  date, 

For  Memory  knoweth  her  own. 

Now  haste  thee,  Dame,  for  the  fire  is  low, 

And  the  good  man  waits  his  tea ; 
Back  to  their  tombs  do  the  phantoms  go, 
And  dark  and  deep  do  the  shadows  grow, 
But  Elswitha  smileth  —  her  dream  to  know, 

Not  a  dream  —  but  a  prophecy. 
Maritime  Monthly.  MARY  BARRY. 


TIRED. 

WHEN  the  day  with  all  its  splendor,  all  its  beauty,  all  its  light, 
Fades  away,  and  leaves  us  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  night, 
And  we  turn  with  wistful  longing  to  the  purple  fields  that  lie 
Where  the  sunlight  in  departing  leaves  its  glory  in  the  sky; 
Piling  up  the  clouds  like  bastions  full  of  fire  along  the  west, 
And  the  early  star  of  evening  gleams  upon  their  fading  crest, — 
Then  we  feel  that  something  brighter,  fairer  still  lies  out  of  sight, 
Where  the  beauty  and  the  glory  will  not  fade  away  in  night ; 
And  that  somewhere  in  the  distance,  in  the  beautiful  beyond, 
Our  beloved  and  departed  hold  us  still  by  some  sweet  bond ; 
And  across  the  gold  and  crimson  of  the  evening's  changeful 

track 
We  can  almost  hear  the  music  of  their  voices  floating  back. 

Tell  me,  dreamers,  say,  what  is  it  that  we  feel  but  cannot  know  ? 
Why  these  cravings,  half  of  rapture,  half  of  sorrow,  haunt  us  so  ? 
What  these  pictures  half  immortal,  ne'er  described  by  brush  or 

word, 
By  which  all  the  human  spirit  of  a  mortal  soul  is  stirred  ? 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT. 


205 


Tell  me,  prophet,  do  they  lead  us  to  the  looked-for  "  by-and-by," 
Where  no  mortal  eye  has  parted  back  the  shades  of  prophecy  ? 
Oh,  ye  dreamers !  oh,  ye  prophets !  what  your  dreams  and 

prophecies, 

What  to  me  the  light  and  fading  of  the  ever-changing  skies, 
What  to  me  the  glorious  beauty  in  the  cloud-land  in  the  west, 
While  with  every  heart-beat  moaning  for  the  priceless  boon  of 

REST! 


THE  LOST  SHEEP. 

DE  massa  ob  de  sheepfol', 

Dat  guard  de  sheepfol'  bin, 
Look  out  in  de  gloomerin'  meadows 

Whar  de  long  night  rain  begin  — 
So  he  call  to  de  hirelin'  shepa'd, 

"  Is  my  sheep,  is  dey  all  come  in  ? " 
Oh,  den  says  de  hirelin'  shepa'd, 

"  Dey  's  some,  dey  's  black  and  thin, 
And  some,  dey 's  po'  ol'  wedda's, 

But  de  res'  dey 's  all  brung  in,  — 

But  de  res'  dey  's  all  brung  in." 

Den  de  massa  ob  de  sheepfol', 

Dat  guard  de  sheepfoP  bin, 
Goes  down  in  de  gloomerin'  meadows 

Whar  de  long  night  rain  begin  — 
So  he  le'  down  de  ba's  ob  de  sheepfol', 

Callin'  sof ,  "  Come  in,  come  in  1 " 

Callin'  sof,  "  Come  in,  come  in ! " 

Den  up  tro'  de  gloomerin'  meadows, 

Tro'  de  col'  night  rain  and  win', 
And  up  tro'  de  gloomerin'  rain-paf, 

Whar  de  sleet  fa'  pie'cin'  thin, 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfol' 

Dey  all  comes  gadderin*  in. 
De  po'  los'  sheep  ob  de  sheepfol' 

Dey  all  comes  gadderin'  in. 

SALLY  PRATT  MCLEAN. 


WHEN  THE  COWS  COME  HOME. 

I. 

WITH  klingle,  klangle,  klingle, 

Way  down  the  dusty  dingle, 

The  cows  are  coming  home  ; 
Now  sweet  and  clear,  and  faint  and  low, 
The  airy  tinklings  come  and  go, 


206  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Like  chimings  from  some  far-off  tower, 
Or  patterings  of  an  April  shower 
That  makes  the  daisies  grow  — 

Ko-kling,  ko  klang,  koklinglelingle, 
Way  down  the  darkening  dingle 
The  cows  come  slowly  home. 


With  jingle,  jangle,  jingle, 
Soft  sounds  that  sweetly  mingle, 
The  cows  are  coming  home  ; 
Malime,  and  Pearl,  and  Florimel, 
DeKamp,  Redrose,  and  Gretchen  Schell, 
Queen  Bess,  and  Sylph,  and  Spangled  Sue  • 
Across  the  fields  I  hear  loo-oo, 
And  clang  her  silver  bell, 

Go-ling,  go-lang,  golinglelingle, 
With  faint  far  sounds  that  mingle, 
The  cows  come  slowly  home  ; 
And  mother-songs  of  long-gone  years, 
And  baby  joys,  and  childish  fears, 
And  youthful  hopes,  and  youthful  fears, 
When  the  cows  come  home. 

in. 

With  ringle,  rangle,  ringle, 
By  twos  and  threes  and  single, 
The  cows  are  coming  home. 
Through  the  violet  air  we  see  the  town, 
And  the  summer  sun  a-slipping  down ; 
The  maple  in  the  hazel  glade 
Throws  down  the  path  a  longer  shade, 
And  the  hills  are  growing  brown. 
To-ring,  to-rang,  toringleringle, 
By  threes  and  fours  and  single, 
The  cows  come  slowly  home. 
The  same  sweet  sound  of  wordless  psalm, 
The  same  sweet  June-day  rest  and  calm, 
The  same  sweet  scent  of  bud  and  balm, 
When  the  cows  come  home. 


IV. 

With  a  tinkle,  tankle,  tinkle, 
Through  fern  and  periwinkle, 
The  cows  are  coming  home  ; 
A-loitering  in  the  checkered  stream, 
Where  the  sun-rays  glance  and  gleam, 
Starine,  Peachbloom,  and  Phoebe  Phyllis 
Stand  knee  deep  in  the  creamy  lilies, 
In  a  drowsy  dream, 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT.  207 

To-link,  to-lank,  tolinklelinkle, 

O'er  banks  with  buttercups  a-twinkle 

The  cows  come  slowly  home ; 
And  up  through  memory's  deep  ravine 
Come  the  brook's  old  song  and  its  old-time  sheen, 
And  the  crescent  of  the  silver  queen, 

When  the  cows  come  home. 

v. 

With  a  klingle,  klangle,  klingle, 

With  a  loo-oo,  and  moo-oo,  and  jingle, 

The  cows  are  coming  home ; 
And  over  there  on  Merlin  hill, 
Hear  the  plaintive  cry  of  the  whippoorwill ; 
The  dew-drops  lie  on  the  tangled  vines, 
And  over  the  poplars  Venus  shines  ; 

And  over  the  silent  mill, 

Ko-ling,  ko-lang,  kolinglelingle, 

With  a  ting-a-ling  and  jingle, 

The  cows  come  slowly  home. 
Let  down  the  bars ;  let  in  the  train 
Of  long-gone  songs,  and  flowers,  and  rain ; 
For  dear  old  times  come  back  again 

When  the  cows  come  home. 

MRS.  AGNES  E.  MITCHELL. 


IF   WE  KNEW;  OR,   BLESSINGS   OF  TO-DAY. 

IF  we  knew  the  woe  and  heart-ache 

That  await  us  on  the  road  ; 
If  our  lips  could  taste  the  wormwood, 

If  our  backs  could  feel  the  load  ; 
"Would  we  waste  to-day  in  wishing 

For  a  time  that  ne'er  may  be  ? 
Would  we  wait  in  such  impatience 

For  our  ships  to  come  from  sea  ? 

If  we  knew  the  baby  fingers 

Pressed  against  the  window-pane 
Would  be  cold  and  stiff  to-morrow,  — 

Never  trouble  us  again  ; 
Would  the  bright  eyes  of  our  darling 

Catch  the  frown  upon  our  brow  ? 
Would  the  print  of  baby  fingers 

Vex  us  then  as  they  do  now  ? 

Ah !  those  little  ice-cold  fingers, 
How  they  point  our  memories  back 

To  the  hasty  words  and  actions 
Strewn  along  the  backward  track  I 


208  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

How  those  little  hands  remind  us, 

As  in  snowy  grace  they  lie, 
Not  to  scatter  thorns,  but  roses, 

For  the  reaping  by  and  by. 

Strange,  we  never  prize  the  music 

Till'  the  sweet-voiced  birds  have  flown ; 
Strange,  that  we  should  slight  the  violets 

Till  the  lovely  flowers  are  gone  j 
Strange,  that  summer  skies  and  sunshine 

Never  seem  one  half  so  fair 
As  when  winter's  snowy  pinions 

Shake  the  white  down  in  the  air. 

Lips  from  which  the  seal  of  silence 

None  but  God  can  roll  away 
Never  blossomed  in  such  beauty 

As  adorns  the  mouth  to-day  ; 
And  sweet  words  that  freight  our  memory 

With  their  beautiful  perfume 
Come  to  us  in  sweeter  accents 

Through  the  portals  of  the  tomb. 

Let  us  gather  up  the  sunbeams 

Lying  all  around  our  path ; 
Let  us  keep  the  wheat  and  roses, 

Casting  out  the  thorns  and  chaff ; 
Let  us  find  our  sweetest  comfort 

In  the  blessings  of  to-day, 
With  a  patient  hand  removing 

All  the  briers  from  the  way. 

The  Hearthstone.  MRS.  MAY  RILEY  SMITH. 


GROWING  OLD. 

Is  it  parting  with  the  roundness 

Of  the  smoothly  moulded  cheek  ? 
Is  it  losing  from  the  dimples 

Half  the  flashing  joy  they  speak  ? 
Is  it  fading  of  the  lustre 

From  the  wavy,  golden  hair  ? 
Is  it  finding  on  the  forehead 

Graven  lines  of  thought  and  care  ? 

Is  it  dropping,  as  the  rose-leaves 
Drop  their  sweetness  overblown, 

Household  names  that  once  were  dearer, 
More  familiar  than  our  own  ? 


IN  THE   TWILIGHT.  209 

Is  it  meeting  on  the  pathway 

Faces  strange  and  glances  cold, 
While  the  soul  with  moan  and  shiver 

Whispers  sadly,  "  Growing  old  "  ? 

Is  it  frowning  at  the  folly 

Of  the  ardent  hopes  of  youth  ? 
Is  it  cynic  melancholy 

At  the  rarity  of  truth  ? 
Is  it  disbelief  in  loving  ? 

Selfish  hate,  or  miser's  greed  ? 
Then  such  blight  of  Nature's  noblest 

Is  a  "  growing  old  "  indeed. 

But  the  silver  thread  that  shineth 

Whitely  in  the  thinning  tress, 
And  the  pallor  where  the  bloom  was, 

Need  not  tell  of  bitterness  : 
And  the  brow's  more  earnest  writing 

Where  it  once  was  marble  fair, 
May  be  but  the  spirit's  tracing 

Of  the  peace  of  answered  prayer. 

If  the  smile  has  gone  in  deeper, 

And  the  tears  more  quickly  start, 
Both  together  meet  in  music 

Low  and  tender  in  the  heart ; 
And  in  others'  joy  and  gladness, 

When  the  life  can  find  its  own, 
Surely  angels  learn  to  listen 

To  the  sweetness  of  the  tone. 

Nothing  lost  of  all  we  planted 

In  the  time  of  budding  leaves ; 
Only  some  things  bound  in  bundles 

And  set  by  —  our  precious  sheaves ; 
Only  treasure  kept  in  safety, 

Out  of  reach  and  out  of  rust, 
Till  we  clasp  it  grown  the  richer 

Through  the  glory  of  our  trust. 

On  the  gradual  sloping  pathway, 

As  the  passing  years  decline. 
Gleams  a  golden  love-light  falling 

Far  from  upper  heights  divine. 
And  the  shadows  from  that  brightness 

Wrap  them  softly  in  their  fold, 
Who  unto  celestial  whiteness 

Walk,  by  way  of  growing  old. 

MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER. 


210  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


A   WOMAN'S   COMPLAINT. 

I  KNOW  that  deep  within  your  heart  of  hearts 
You  hold  me  shrined  apart  from  common  things, 

And  that  my  step,  my  voice,  can  bring  to  you 
A  gladness  that  no  other  presence  brings. 

And  yet,  dear  love,  through  all  the  weary  days 
You  never  speak  one  word  of  tenderness, 

Nor  stroke  my  hair,  nor  softly  clasp  my  hand 
Within  your  own  in  loving,  mute  caress. 

You  think,  perhaps,  I  should  be  all  content 
To  know  so  well  the  loving  place  I  hold 

Within  your  life,  and  so  you  do  not  dream 
How  much  I  long  to  hear  the  story  told. 

You  cannot  know,  when  we  two  sit  alone, 

And  tranquil  thoughts  within  your  mind  are  stirred, 

My  heart  is  crying  like  a  tired  child 
For  one  fond  look,  one  gentle,  loving  word. 

It  may  be  when  your  eyes  look  into  mine 
You  only  say,  "  How  dear  she  is  to  me  ! " 

Oh,  could  I  read  it  in  your  softened  glance, 
How  radiant  this  plain  old  world  would  be ! 

Perhaps,  sometimes,  you  breathe  a  secret  prayer 
That  choicest  blessings  unto  me  be  given ; 

But  if  you  said  aloud,  "  God  bless  thee,  dear ! " 
I  should  not  ask  a  greater  boon  from  Heaven. 

I  weary  sometimes  of  the  rugged  way  ; 

But  should  you  say,  "  Through  thee  my  life  is  sweet," 
The  dreariest  desert  that  our  path  could  cross 

Would  suddenly  grow  green  beneath  my  feet. 

T  is  not  the  boundless  waters  ocean  holds 
That  give  refreshment  to  the  thirsty  flowers, 

But  just  the  drops  that,  rising  to  the  skies, 
From  thence  descend  in  softly  falling  showers. 

What  matter  that  our  granaries  are  filled 
With  all  the  richest  harvest's  golden  stores, 

If  we  who  own  them  cannot  enter  in, 

But  famished  stand  before  the  close-barred  doors  ? 

And  so  *t  is  sad  that  those  who  should  be  rich 

In  that  true  love  which  crowns  our  earthly  lot, 
Go  praying  with  white  lips  from  day  to  day 

For  love's  sweet  tokens,  and  receive  them  not. 
The  Advance. 


IN    THE   TWILIGHT.  211 


SONGS  IN  SLEEP. 

IF  I  could  frame  for  you  in  cunning  words 
The  songs  my  heart  in  sleep  is  often  singing, 

You  'd  fancy,  love,  an  orchestra  of  birds 
Upon  their  quivering  throats  the  dawn  were  bringing. 

Now  in  some  wild,  weird  flush  of  melody 
I  'd  feign  the  skylark,  with  his  music  sifting 

The  final  films  of  nightshade  from  the  lea, 
And  all  the  waking  world  to  heaven  uplifting. 

Then,  ere  the  lengthening  liquid  solo  went  — 
In  skylark  fashion  —  out  of  hearing  o'er  us, 

I  'd  mock  with  skill,  as  sweet  as  my  intent, 
Thrustle  and  blackbird  coming  in  for  chorus. 

There 's  not  a  strain  of  joy  the  birds  could  sing, 
I  could  not  set  to  words  that  I  've  been  dreaming ; 

But  when  I  wake,  alas  !  they  all  take  wing, 
And  leave  of  music  but  the  empty  seeming. 

Believe  me,  love,  I  sing  to  you,  in  sleep, 

Songs  that  if  voiced  would  waken  you  to  pleasure ; 

Would  you  could  hear  them  in  your  dreams,  and  keep 
Their  inner  meaning,  though  you  missed  the  measure. 

REV.  WM.  C.  RICHARDS. 


FIFTY  YEARS   APART. 

THEY  sit  in  the  winter  gloaming, 
And  the  fire  burns  bright  between ; 

One  has  passed  seventy  summers, 
And  the  other  just  seventeen. 

They  rest  in  a  happy  silence 
As  the  shadows  deepen  fast ; 

One  lives  in  a  coming  future, 
And  one  in  a  long,  long  past. 

Each  dreams  of  a  rush  of  music, 
And  a  question  whispered  low  ; 

One  will  hear  it  this  evening, 
One  heard  it  long  ago. 

Each  dreams  of  a  loving  husband 
Whose  brave  heart  is  hers  alone; 

For  one  the  joy  is  coming, 
For  one  the  joy  has  flown. 


212  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Each  dreams  of  a  life  of  gladness 
Spent  under  the  sunny  skies ; 

And  both  the  hope  and  the  memory 
Shine  in  the  happy  eyes. 

Who  knows  which  dream  is  the  brightest  ? 

And  who  knows  which  is  the  best  ? 
The  sorrow  and  joy  are  mingled, 

But  only  the  end  is  rest. 
Parlor  Magazine. 


A   WOMAN'S   WISH. 

WOULD  I  were  lying  in  a  field  of  clover, 
Of  clover  cool  and  soft,  and  soft  and  sweet, 

With  dusky  clouds  in  deep  skies  hanging  over, 
And  scented  silence  at  my  head  and  feet. 

Just  for  one  hour  to  slip  the  leash  of  worry 
In  eager  haste  from  Thought's  impatient  neck, 

And  watch  it  coursing  —  in  its  heedless  hurry 
Disdaining  Wisdom's  whistles,  Duty's  beck. 

Ah,  it  were  sweet  where  clover  clumps  are  meeting, 

And  daisies  hiding,  so  to  hide  and  rest; 
No  sound  except  my  own  heart's  steady  beating, 

Rocking  itself  to  sleep  within  my  breast,  — 

Just  to  lie  there,  filled  with  the  deeper  breathing 
That  comes  of  listening  to  a  free  bird's  song  ! 

Our  souls  require  at  times  this  full  unsheathing  — 
All  swords  will  rust  if  scabbard-kept  too  long. 

And  I  am  tired  !— •  so  tired  of  rigid  duty, 

So  tired  of  all  my  tired  hands  find  to  do ! 
I  yearn,  I  faint,  for  some  of  life's  free  beauty, 

Its  loose  beads  with  no  straight  string  running  through. 

Ay,  laugh,  if  laugh  you  will,  at  my  crude  speech, 
But  women  sometimes  die  of  such  a  greed,  — 

Die  for  the  small  joys  held  beyond  their  reach, 
And  the  assurance  they  have  all  they  need. 

MARY  A.  TOWNSEND, 


AT  THE  PIANO. 

PLAY  on!  play  on  !    As  softly  glides 
The  low  refrain,  I  seem,  I  seem 

To  float,  to  float,  on  golden  tides 
By  sunlit  isles,  where  life  and  dream 


IN  THE 


Are  one,  are  one  ;  and  hope  and  bliss 
Move  hand  in  hand,  and,  thrilling,  kiss 

'Neath  bowery  blooms 

In  twilight  glooms, 
And  love  is  life  and  life  is  love. 

Play  on  !  play  on  !     As  higher  rise 
The  lifted  strains,  I  seem,  I  seem 
To  mount,  to  mount,  through  roseate  skies, 
Through  drifted  clouds  and  golden  gleam, 
To  realms,  to  realms  of  thought  and  fire, 
Where  angels  walk  and  souls  aspire, 
And  sorrows  come  but  as  the  night 
That  brings  a  star  for  our  delight. 

Play  on  1  play  on  !     The  spirit  fails, 

The  star  grows  dim,  the  glory  pales, 

The  depths  are  roused  —  the  depths,  and  oh  ! 

The  heart  that  wakes,  the  hopes  that  glow  ! 

The  depths  are  roused,  their  billows  call 

The  soul  from  heights  to  slip  and  fall  ; 

To  slip  and  fall  and  faint,  and  be 

Made  part  of  their  immensity  ; 

To  slip  from  heaven  ;  to  fall  and  find 

In  love  the  only  perfect  mind. 

To  slip  and  fall  and  faint,  and  be 

Lost,  drowned  within  this  melody, 

As  life  is  lost,  and  thought,  in  thee. 

Ah,  sweet,  art  thou  the  star,  —  the  star 
That  draws  my  soul  afar,  afar  ? 
The  voice  the  silvery  tide  on  which 
I  float  to  island  rare  and  rich  ? 
Thy  love  the  ocean,  deep  and  strong, 
In  which  my  hopes  and  being  long 
To  sink  and  faint  and  fall  away  ? 
I  cannot  know  ;  I  cannot  say. 
Play  on  !  play  on  1 


A  TWILIGHT   REVERIE. 

THE  fire  in  the  west  burns  low ; 

A  fading  gleam  of  light 
Only  remains  of  the  crimson  glow 

That  made  half  heaven  so  bright ; 
And  the  weary  day,  in  her  shroud  of  gray, 
Sighs  out  her  life  on  the  breast  of  night. 

The  fire  on  my  hearth  burns  low ; 

Beside  the  glimmering  light 
I  dream  of  that  sunset  long  ago 

When  all  my  heaven  seemed  bright. 


213 


•214  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

But  since  that  day,  with  each  sunset  ray 
I  've  longed  to  die  in  the  gloom  of  night. 

The  fire  of  my  life  burns  low  ; 

And  through  the  darkening  night 
Strange,  shadowy  shapes  flit  to  and  fro, 

Awaiting  my  spirit's  flight. 

And  these  shadowy  things  show  glistening  wings 
To  bear  me  away  on  the  morning  light. 


MY   CIGARETTE. 

MY  cigarette  !    The  amulet 

That  charms  afar  unrest  and  sorrow ; 
The  magic  wand  that  far  beyond 

To-day  can  conjure  up  to-morrow. 
Like  love's  desire,  thy  crown  of  fire 

So  softly  with  the  twilight  blending, 
And  ah  !  meseems,  a  poet's  dreams 

Are  in  thy  wreaths  of  smoke  ascending. 

My  cigarette !     Can  I  forget 

How  Kate  and  I,  in  sunny  weather, 
Sat  in  the  shade  the  elm-tree  made 

And  rolled  the  fragrant  weed  together  ? 
I  at  her  side  beatified, 

To  hold  and  guide  her  fingers  willing; 
She  rolling  slow  the  paper's  snow, 

Putting  my  heart  in  with  the  filling. 

My  cigarette !     I  see  her  yet, 

The  white  smoke  from  her  red  lips  curling, 
Her  dreaming  eyes,  her  soft  replies, 

Her  gentle  sighs,  her  laughter  purling  ! 
Ah,  dainty  roll,  whose  parting  soul 

Ebbs  out  in  many  a  snowy  billow, 
I,  too,  would  burn  if  I  might  earn 

Upon  her  lips  so  soft  a  pillow  ! 

Ah,  cigarette !    The  gay  coquette 

Has  long  forgot  the  flames  she  lighted, 
And  you  and  I  unthinking  by 

Alike  are  thrown,  alike  are  slighted. 
The  darkness  gathers  fast  without, 

A  rain-drop  on  my  window  plashes ; 
My  cigarette  and  heart  are  out, 

And  nought  is  left  me  but  the  ashes. 
Harvard  Crimson,  Jan.  9,  1880.  C.  F.  LUMMIS,  '8l. 


PA  fcT   VIII. 
tw  «n&  f  i 


But  in  his  eyes  a  mist  unwonted  rises, 

And  for  a  moment  clear, 

Some  sweet  home  face  his  foolish  thought  surprises 
And  passes  in  a  tear. 

Some  boyish  vision  of  his  Eastern  village, 

Of  uneventful  toil, 
Where  golden  harvests  followed  quiet  tillage 

Above  a  peaceful  soil. 

BRET  HARTE. 


PART    VIII. 

anli  f  ircgibe. 


AT  HOME. 

WHERE  burns  the  fireside  brightest, 

Cheering  the  social  breast  ? 
Where  beats  the  fond  heart  lightest, 

Its  humblest  hopes  possessed  ? 
Where  is  the  hour  of  sadness, 

With  meek-eyed  patience  borne, 
Worth  more  than  those  of  gladness, 

Which  mirth's  gay  cheeks  adorn  ? 
Pleasure  is  marked  by  fleetness, 

To  those  who  ever  roam ; 
While  grief  itself  has  sweetness 

At  home  —  sweet  home. 

BERNARD  BARTON 


FORTUNE  MY  FOE. 

"  AIM  not  too  high  at  things  beyond  thy  reach," 
Nor  give  the  rein  to  reckless  thought  or  speech. 
Is  it  not  better  all  thy  life  to  bide 
.  Lord  of  thyself,  than  all  the  earth  beside  ? 

Thus  if  high  Fortune  far  from  thee  take  wing, 
Why  shouldst  thou  envy  counsellor  or  king  ? 
Purple  or  homespun,  —  wherefore  make  ado 
What  coat  may  cover,  if  the  heart  be  true  ? 

Then,  if  at  last  thou  gather  wealth  at  will, 
Thou  most  shalt  honor  Him  who  grants  it  still ; 
Since  he  who  best  doth  poverty  endure, 
Should  prove,  when  rich,  best  brother  to  the  poor. 
The  Spectator.  ALFRED  PERCIVAL  GRAVES. 


2l8  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


HOME  IS   WHERE  THE   HEART   IS. 

*T  is  home  where'er  the  heart  is, 

Where'er  its  loved  ones  dwell, 
In  cities  or  in  cottages, 

Thronged  haunts  or  mossy  dell. 
The  heart 's  a  rover  ever, 

And  thus,  on  wave  and  wild, 
The  maiden  with  her  lover  walks, 

The  mother  with  her  child. 

*T  is  bright  where'er  the  heart  is ; 

Its  fairy  spell  can  bring 
Fresh  fountains  to  the  wilderness, 

And  to  the  desert  spring. 
Green  isles  are  in  the  ocean 

O'er  which  affection  glides, 
A  haven  on  each  sunny  shore, 

When  love  's  the  sun  that  guides. 

'T  is  free  where'er  the  heart  is  ; 

Nor  chains  nor  dungeons  dim 
May  check  the  mind's  aspiring  thought, 

The  spirit's  pealing  hymn. 
The  heart  gives  life  its  beauty, 

Its  glory,  and  its  powers ; 
*T  is  sunlight  to  its  rippling  stream, 

And  soft  dew  to  its  flowers. 


HOME-COMING. 

WHEN  brothers  leave  the  old  hearthstone 

And  go,  each  one,  a  separate  way, 
We  think,  as  we  go  on  alone 

Along  our  pathway,  day  by  day, 
Of  olden  scenes  and'f  aces  dear, 

Of  voices  that  we  miss  so  much ; 
And  memory  brings  the  absent  near, 

Until  we  almost  feel  the  touch 
Of  loving  hands,  and  hear  once  more 

The  dear  old  voices  ringing  out, 
As  in  that  happy  time  of  yore, 

Ere  life  had  caught  a  shade  of  doubt. 

If  you  should  place  against  your  ear 
The  shell  you  plundered  from  the  sea, 

Down  in  its  hidden  heart  you  'd  hear 
A  low  and  tender  melody; 


HOME  AND  FIRESIDE.  219 

A  murmur  of  the  restless  tide, 

A  yearning  born  of  memory ; 
And  though  its  yearnings  be  denied, 

The  shell  keeps  singing  of  the  sea. 
And  sometimes  when  old  memories  throng 

Like  ghosts  the  memories  of  our  soul, 
We  feel  the  yearning,  deep  and  strong, 

A  longing  we  cannot  control, 
To  lay  our  care  and  business  by, 

And  seek  the  old  familiar  ways, 
And  cross  home's  threshold,  and  sit  down 

With  comrades  of  our  earlier  days. 

For  though  our  paths  are  sundered  wide, 

We  feel  that  we  are  brothers  yet, 
And  by  and  by  we  turn  aside 

From  hurrying  care  and  worldly  fret, 
And  each  one  wanders  back  to  meet 

His  brother  by  the  hearth  of  home ; 
I  think  the  meeting  is  more  sweet 

Because  so  far  and  wide  we  roam. 
We  cross  the  lengthening  bridge  of  years, 

Meet  outstretched  hands  and  faces  true ; 
The  silent  eloquence  of  tears 

Speaks  welcome  that  no  words  can  do. 

But  ah,  the  meeting  holds  regret  1 

The  sad,  sad  story,  often  told, 
Of  hands  that  ours  have  often  met, 

Close  folded  under  churchyard  mould  ; 
Of  eyes  that  smiled  into  our  own, 

Closed  in  the  dreamless  sleep  of  God  ; 
A  sweeter  rest  was  never  known 

Than  theirs,  beneath  the  grave's  white  sod. 
A  tender  thought  for  them  to-night, 

A  tribute  tear  from  memory  ; 
Beneath  their  covering  of  white 

Sweet  may  their  dreamless  slumber  be. 


A   SONG   FOR   THE   HOT   WINDS. 

OH  for  a  breath  o'  the  moorlands, 

A  whiff  o'  the  caller  air ! 
For  the  smell  o'  the  flowerin'  heather 

My  very  heart  is  sair. 

Oh  for  the  sound  o'  the  burnies 

That  whimple  to  the  sea  ; 
For  the  sight  o'  the  browning  bracken 

On  the  hillside  waving  free  I 


220  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Oh  for  the  blue  lochs  cradled 

In  the  arms  o'  mountains  gray, 
That  smile  as  they  shadow  the  drifting  clouds 

A'  the  bonny  summer  day  ! 

Oh  for  the  tops  o'  mountains 

White  wi'  eternal  snaw  ; 
For  the  mists  that  drift  across  the  lift ; 

For  the  strong  east  winds  that  blaw  I 

I  am  sick  o'  the  blazing  sunshine 

That  burns  through  the  weary  hours, 

O'  the  gaudy  birds  singing  never  a  song, 
O*  beautiful  scentless  flowers. 

I  wud  gie  a*  the  southern  glory 

For  a  taste  o'  a  good  saut  wind, 
Wi'  a  road  ower  the  bonny  sea  before, 

And  a  track  o'  foam  behind. 

Auld  Scotland  may  be  rugged, 

Her  mountains  stern  and  bare  ; 
But,  oh  for  a  breath  o'  her  moorlands, 

A  whiff  o'  her  caller  air  ! 

HARRIET  MILLER  DAVIDSON. 
Adelaide,  Australia,  Jan.  13,  1872. 


THE  SERMON  IN  A  STOCKING. 

THE  supper  is  over,  the  hearth  is  swept, 

And  in  the  wood-fire's  glow 
The  children  cluster  to  hear  a  tale 

Of  that  time  so  long  ago, 

When  grandmamma's  hair  was  golden  brown, 

And  the  warm  blood  came  and  went 
O'er  the  face  that  could  scarce  have  been  sweeter  then 

Than  now  in  its  rich  content. 

The  face  is  wrinkled  and  careworn  now, 

And  the  golden  hair  is  gray  ; 
But  the  light  that  shone  in  the  young  girl's  eyes 

Has  never  gone  away. 

And  her  needles  catch  the  fire's  light 

As  in  and  out  they  go, 
With  the  clicking  music  that  grandma  loves, 

Shaping  the  stocking's  toe. 


HOME  AND  FIRESIDE.  221 

And  the  waking  children  love  it  too* 

For  they  know  the  stocking  song 
Brings  many  a  tale  to  grandma's  mind 

Which  they  shall  hear  ere  long. 

But  it  brings  no  story  of  olden  time 

To  grandma's  heart  to-night,  — 
Only  a  ditty  quaint  and  short 

Is  sung  by  the  needles  bright. 

"  Life  is  a  stocking,"  grandma  says, 

"  And  yours  is  just  begun  ; 
But  I  am  knitting  the  toe  of  mine, 

And  my  work  is  almost  done. 

"  With  merry  hearts  we  begin  to  knit, 

And  the  ribbing  is  almost  play  ; 
Some  are  gay-colored,  and  some  are  white, 

And  some  are  ashen  gray. 

"  But  most  are  made  of  many  a  hue, 

With  many  a  stitch  set  wrong, 
And  many  a  row  to  be  sadly  ripped 

Ere  the  whole  is  fair  and  strong. 

"  There  are  long  plain  stretches  without  a  break, 

That  in  youth  are  hard  to  bear ; 
And  many  a  weary  tear  is  dropped 

As  we  fashion  the  heel  with  care. 

"  But  the  saddest,  happiest  time  is  that, 

We  court  and  yet  would  shun, 
When  our  Heavenly  Father  breaks  the  thread, 

And  says  our  work  is  done." 

And  the  children  come  to  say  good-night, 
With  tears  in  their  bright  young  eyes ; 

While  in  grandma's  lap,  with  broken  thread, 
The  finished  stocking  lies. 


MY  MOTHER'S  HANDS. 

SUCH  beautiful,  beautiful  hands ! 

They  're  neither  white  nor  small ; 
And  you,  I  know,  would  scarcely  think 

That  they  were  fair  at  all. 
I  Ve  looked  on  hands  whose  form  and  hue 

A  sculptor's  dream  might  be ; 
Yet  are  those  wrinkled,  aged  hands 

Most  beautiful  to  me. 


222  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands ! 

Though  heart  were  weary  and  sad, 
These  patient  hands  kept  toiling  on, 

That  the  children  might  be  glad ; 
I  always  weep,  as  looking  back 

To  childhood's  distant  day, 
I  think  how  those  hands  rested  not, 

When  mine  were  at  their  play. 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands  ! 

They  're  growing  feeble  now, 
For  time  and  pain  have  left  their  mark 

On  hands,  and  heart,  and  brow. 
Alas !  alas !  the  nearing  time, 

And  the  sad,  sad  day  to  me, 
When  'neath  the  daisies,  out  of  sight, 

These  hands  will  folded  be. 

But  oh,  beyond  this  shadow  land, 

Where  all  is  bright  and  fair, 
I  know  full  well  these  dear  old  hands 

Will  palms  of  victory  bear  ; 
Where  crystal  streams  through  endless  years 

Flow  over  golden  sands, 
And  where  the  old  grow  young  again, 

I  '11  clasp  my  mother's  hands. 

ELLEN  M.  H.  GATES. 


THE  EXILES. 

THE  sea  at  the  crag's  base  brightens, 

And  shivers  in  waves  of  gold ; 
And  overhead,  in  its  vastness, 

The  fathomless  blue  is  rolled. 
There  comes  no  wind  from  the  water, 

There  shines  no  sail  on  the  main, 
And  not  a  cloudlet  to  shadow 

The  earth  with  its  fleecy  grain. 
Oh,  give  in  return  for  this  glory, 

So  passionate,  warm,  and  still, 
The  mist  of  a  highland  valley  — 

The  breeze  from  a  Scottish  hill ! 

Day  after  day  glides  slowly, 

Ever  and  ever  the  same,  — 
Seas  of  intensest  splendor, 

Airs  which  smite  hot  as  a  flame ; 
Birds  of  imperial  plumage, 

Palms  straight  as  columns  of  fire, 
Flutter  and  glitter  around  me, 

But  not  so  my  soul's  desire. 


HOME  AND  FIRESIDE.  223 

I  long  for  the  song  of  the  laverock, 

The  cataract's  leap  and  flash, 
The  sweep  of  the  red  deer's  antlers, 

The  gleam  of  the  mountain  ash. 

Only  when  night 's  quiescent, 

And  peopled  with  alien  stars, 
Old  faces  come  to  the  casement 

And  peer  through  the  vine-leaved  bars. 
No  words,  but  I  guess  their  fancies  — 

Their  dreamings  are  also  mine  — 
Of  the  land  of  the  cloud  and  heather, 

The  region  of  "  Auld  Lang  Syne." 
Again  we  are  treading  the  mountains, 

Below  us  broadens  the  firth, 
And  billows  of  light  keep  rolling 

Down  leagues  of  empurpled  heath. 

Speed  swift  through  the  glowing  tropics, 

Stout  ship  which  shall  bear  me  home  ; 
Oh,  pass  as  a  God-sent  arrow 

Through  tempest,  darkness,  and  foam. 
Bear  up  through  the  silent  girdle 

That  circles  the  flying  earth, 
Till  there  shall  blaze  on  thy  compass 

The  loadstar  over  the  north ; 
That  the  winds  of  the  hills  may  greet  us, 

That  our  footsteps  again  may  be 
In  the  land  of  our  hearts'  traditions, 

And  close  to  the  storied  sea. 


Chambers'*  Journal. 


OUR  OWN. 


IF  I  had  known  in  the  morning 
How  wearily  all  the  day 

The  words  unkind 

Would  trouble  my  mind 
I  said  when  you  went  away, 
I  had  been  more  careful,  darling, 

Nor  given  you  needless  pain ; 
But  we  vex  our  own 
With  look  and  tone 

We  might  never  take  back  again. 

For  though  in  the  quiet  evening 
You  may  give  me  the  kiss  of  peace, 

Yet  it  might  be 

That  never  for  me 
The  pain  of  the  heart  should  cease. 
How  many  go  forth  in  the  morning 


224  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

That  never  come  home  at  night ; 

And  hearts  have  broken 

For  harsh  words  spoken 
That  sorrow  can  ne'er  set  right. 

We  have  careful  thoughts  for  the  stranger, 
And  smiles  for  the  sometime  guest, 
But  oft  for  "  our  own  " 
The  bitter  tone, 

Though  we  love  "  our  own  "  the  best. 
Ah,  lips  with  the  curve  impatient, 
Ah,  brow  with  that  look  of  scorn, 
'T  were  a  cruel  fate 
Were  the  night  too  late 
To  undo  the  work  of  morn  ! 

MARGARET  E.  SANGSTER. 


DAN'S  WIFE. 

UP  in  early  morning  light, 
Sweeping,  dusting,  "  setting  right," 
Oiling  all  the  household  springs, 
Sewing  buttons,  tying  strings, 
Telling  Bridget  what  to  do, 
Mending  rips  in  Johnny's  shoe, 
Running  up  and  down  the  stair, 
Tying  baby  in  her  chair, 
Cutting  meat  and  spreading  bread, 
Dishing  out  so  much  per  head, 
Eating  as  she  can  by  chance, 
Giving  husband  kindly  glance ; 
Toiling,  working,  busy  life,  — 

Smart  woman, 

Dan's  wife. 

Dan  comes  home  at  fall  of  night, 
Home  so  cheerful,  neat,  and  bright ; 
Children  meet  him  at  the  door, 
Pull  him  in  and  look  him  o'er ; 
Wife  asks  how  the  work  has  gone. 
"  Busy  times  with  us  at  home  !  " 
Supper  done,  Dan  reads  with  ease,  — 
Happy  Dan,  but  one  to  please ! 
Children  must  be  put  to  bed  — 
All  the  little  prayers  are  said ; 
Little  shoes  are  placed  in  rows, 
Bedclothes  tucked  o'er  little  toes ; 
Busy,  noisy,  wearing  life,  — 

Tired  woman, 

Dan's  wife. 


HOME  AND  FIRESIDE.  225 

Dan  reads  on  and  falls  asleep  — 
See  the  woman  softly  creep ; 
Baby  rests  at  last,  poor  dear, 
Not  a  word  her  heart  to  cheer ; 
Mending-basket  full  to  top, 
Stockings,  shirt,  and  little  frock ; 
Tired  eyes  and  weary  brain, 
Side  with  darting,  ugly  pain ; 
"  Never  mind,  't  will  pass  away," 
She  must  work,  but  never  play ; 
Closed  piano,  unused  books, 
Done  the  walks  to  easy  nooks, 
Brightness  faded  out  of  life,  — 

Saddened  woman, 

Dan's  wife. 

Up  stairs,  tossing  to  and  fro, 
Fever  holds  the  woman  low ; 
Children  wander  free  to  play 
When  and  where  they  will  to-day ; 
Bridget  loiters  —  dinner 's  cold, 
Dan  looks  anxious,  cross,  and  old ; 
Household  screws  are  out  of  place, 
Lacking  one  dear,  patient  face ; 
Steady  hands,  so  weak  but  true, 
Hands  that  knew  just  what  to  do, 
Never  knowing  rest  or  play, 
Folded  now  —  and  laid  away ; 
Work  of  six  in  one  short  life,  — 

Shattered  woman, 

Dan's  wife. 

MRS.  KATE  TANNATT  WOODS. 


TIRED   MOTHERS. 

A  LITTLE  elbow  leans  upon  your  knee, 

Your  tired  knee,  that  has  so  much  to  bear ; 
A  child's  dear  eyes  are  looking  lovingly 

From  underneath  a  thatch  of  tangled  hair. 
Perhaps  you  do  not  heed  the  velvet  touch 

Of  warm,  moist  fingers,  folding  yours  so  tight ;  - 
You  do  not  prize  this  blessing  overmuch ; 

You  almost  are  too  tired  to  pray  to-night. 

But  it  is  blessedness !     A  year  ago 

I  did  not  see  it  as  I  do  to-day,  — 
We  are  so  dull  and  thankless ;  and  too  slow 

To  catch  the  sunshine  till  it  slips  away. 
And  now  it  seems  surpassing  strange  to  me 

That,  while  I  wore  the  badge  of  motherhood, 
I  did  not  kiss  more  oft  and  tenderly 

The  little  child  that  brought  me  only  good. 


226  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  if,  some  night,  when  you  sit  down  to  rest, 

You  miss  this  elbow  from  your  tired  knee, 
This  restless,  curling  head  from  off  your  breast, 

This  lisping  tongue  that  chatters  constantly ; 
If  from  your  own  the  dimpled  hands  had  slipped, 

And  ne'er  would  nestle  in  your  palm  again; 
If  the  white  feet  into  their  grave  had  tripped, 

I  could  not  blame  you  for  your  heartache  then ! 

I  wonder  so  that  mothers  ever  fret 

At  little  children  clinging  to  their  gown, 
Or  that  the  footprints,  when  the  days  are  wet, 

Are  ever  black  enough  to  make  them  frown. 
If  I  could  find  a  little  muddy  boot, 

Or  cap,  or  jacket,  on  my  chamber  floor ; 
If  I  could  kiss  a  rosy,  restless  foot, 

And  hear  its  patter  in  my  home  once  more ; 

If  I  could  mend  a  broken  cart  to-day, 

To-morrow  make  a  kite  to  reach  the  sky,  — 
There  is  no  woman  in  God's  world  could  say 

She  was  more  blissfully  content  than  I. 
But  ah !  the  dainty  pillow  next  my  own 

Is  never  rumpled  by  a  shining  head ; 
My  singing  birdling  from  its  nest  has  flown, 

The  little  boy  I  used  to  kiss  is  dead ! 

MRS.  MAY  RILEY  SMITH. 


LITTLE   STITCHES. 

OH,  thoughts  that  go  in  with  the  stitches 

That  women  quietly  take, 
While  castles  are  built  with  the  needle, 

And  bubbles  are  rounded  to  break. 

You  see  in  your  kerchief-hem,  Freshman, 

A  dotted  line  fairy  and  fine  ; 
But  see  you  the  prayers  low  and  tender 

Pricked  in  with  the  lengthening  line  ? 

Betrothed,  as  you  bend  o'er  the  trousseau, 
Absorbed  in  your  rose-tinted  dream, 

Speak  low  as  you  censure  the  seamstress 
For  waver  and  knot  in  the  seam. 

In  'broidery  dainty  and  foreign, 

That  falls  at  your  waist,  you  can  see 

How  trembled  the  hand  of  a  novice, 
In  spite  of  the  vigil-taught  knee. 


HOME  AND  FIRESIDE.  227 

For  throbs  of  a  woman  heart  smothered, 

And  cries  that  no  penance  can  still, 
Are  lifting  the  wreath  and  the  roses, 

Are  echoed  from  girdle  and  frill. 

Oh,  terrible,  blood-reddened  ladder 

Of  loops  hung  on  poverty's  hands, 
Up  which  goes  the  foot  of  Oppression 

To  gather  gold  out  of  its  strands  ! 

Waits  yonder  no  echoing  thunder, 

No  lightnings  to  smite  from  the  cloud, 

When  falling  tears  rust  the  swift  needle, 
And  threads  tie  the  neck  of  a  shroud  ? 

Ah,  beautiful  stitches  so  tiny, 

Where  brooding  love  waits  in  the  nest, 

In  shadow  of  motherhood  coming, 
Half  fearful,  yet  consciously  blest ! 

What  happy  hopes  lie  in  the  gathers, 

Or  lurk  in  the  robes  soft  and  fine  ! 
What  buds  underneath  the  leaves  silky, 

What  day-dreams  run  with  the  vine ! 

No  tale  can  you  tell,  little  stitches,  — 
Such  tales  as  you  might  if  you  could ! 

From  flounces  that  cover  a  ball  dress, 
To  seams  in  a  holy  monk's  hood. 


LIKE  HIS  MOTHER  USED  TO   MAKE. 

"  I  WAS  born  in  Indiany,"  says  a  stranger  lank  and  slim, 

As  us  fellers  in  the  restaurant  was  kind  o'  guyin'  him, 

And  Uncle  Jake  was  slidin'  him  another  pun'kin  pie 

And  an  extra  cup  o'  coffee,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  — 

"  I  was  born  in  Indiany  —  more  'n  forty  year  ago, 

And  I  hain't  been  back  in  twenty  —  and  I  'm  workin'  backwards 

slow ; 

But  I  've  et  in  every  restarunt  'twixt  here  and  Santa  Fee, 
And  I  want  to  state,  this  coffee  tastes  like  gittin'  home  to  me  1 

"  Pour  us  out  another,  daddy,"  says  the  feller,  warmin*  up, 

A  speakin'  crost  a  saucerful,  as  uncle  tuck  his  cup  — 

"  When  I  seed  your  sign  out  yonder,"  he  went  on  to  Uncle 

Jake  — 

"  *  Come  in  and  git  some  coffee  like  your  mother  used  to  make '  — 
I  thought  of  my  old  mother  and  the  Posey  County  farm, 
And  me  a  little  kid  ag'in,  a  hangin'  in  her  arm 
As  she  set  the  pot  a  bilin'  —  broke  the  eggs  an'  poured  'em  in  "  — 
And  the  feller  kind  o'  halted,  with  a  trimble  in  his  chin. 


228  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  Uncle  Jake  he  fetched  the  feller's  coffee  back,  and  stood 

As  solemn,  fer  a  minute,  as  an  undertaker  would  ; 

Then  he  sort  o'  turned  an*  tiptoed  to'rds  the  kitchen  door,  and 

next  — 

Here  comes  his  old  wife  out  with  him  a  rubbin'  of  her  specs  — 
And  she  rushes  for  the  stranger,  and  she  hollers  out,  "  It 's  him  1 
Thank  God,  we  Ve  met  him  comin'  1  Don't  you  know  your 

mother,  Jim  ? " 

And  the  feller  as  he  grabbed  her  says : "  You  bet  I  hain't  forgot " — 
But,  wipin'  of  his  eyes,  says  he,  "  Your  coffee  's  mighty  hot !  " 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


ENCORE. 

THE  singer  stood  in  a  blaze  of  light, 

And  fronted  the  flowery  throng  ; 
Her  lips  apart  with  her  greeting  smile, 

Her  soul  soared  out  in  her  song. 
Now  hovering  like  an  imprisoned  bird 

With  its  plainings  thrilling  nigh, 
Then  faintly  sweet,  as  the  reapers  hear 

A  lark  afar  in  the  sky  ; 

And  forth  like  thunder  the  praises  broke, 

And  the  singer  bowed  and  smiled, 
And  flowers  fell  fast  in  a  scented  storm  — 

But  she  was  not  to  be  wiled. 
"  Shall  I  throw  my  gifts  to  this  fickle  throng  ?  " 

She  thought  with  a  bitter  sigh. 
"  What  do  they  care  for  my  simple  song  ?  " 

As  she  courtesied  a  glad  good-by. 

The  singer  sat  in  her  lonely  room, 

As  the  stars  peeped  out  of  the  haze, 
And  her  voice  poured  forth  in  its  sweetest  gush, 

Though  none  was  beside  to  praise  — 
Till  she  saw  a  form  to  her  window  creep 

And  crouch  by  its  misty  pane,  — 
An  old  dame  wept  at  the  wondrous  song 

That  gave  back  her  youth  again  ! 

The  singer  stirred  not,  nor  made  a  sign 

That  she  saw  where  the  listener  stood, 
But  once  and  again  she  raised  her  voice 

And  poured  out  its  golden  flood, 
And  only  ceased  when  the  minster  bells 

Shook  out  their  evening  clang  — 
Then  one  thanked  God  for  the  song  she  heard, 

And  one  for  the  song  she  sang. 


HOME  AND  FIRESIDE.  229 


ROCKING  THE  BABY. 

I  HEAR  her  rocking  the  baby  — 

Her  room  is  next  to  mine  — 
And  I  fancy  I  feel  the  dimpled  arms 

That  round  her  neck  entwine, 
As  she  rocks  and  rocks  the  baby, 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby 
Each  day  when  the  twilight  comes, 

And  I  know  there  Js  a  world  of  blessing  and  love 
In  the  "  baby-by  "  she  hums. 

I  can  see  the  restless  fingers 

Playing  with  "  mamma's  rings," 
The  sweet  little  smiling,  pouting  mouth 

That  to  hers  in  kissing  clings, 
As  she  rocks  and  sings  to  the  baby, 

And  dreams  as  she  rocks  and  sings. 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby, 

Slower  and  slower  now, 
And  I  hear  she  is  leaving  her  good-night  kiss 

On  its  eyes,  and  cheek,  and  brow. 

From  her  rocking,  rocking,  rocking, 

I  wonder  would  she  start 
Could  she  know,  through  the  wall  between  us, 

She  is  rocking  on  a  heart  ? 
While  my  empty  arms  are  aching 

For  a  form  they  may  not  press,  — 
And  my  empty  heart  is  breaking 

In  its  desolate  loneliness. 

I  list  to  the  rocking,  rocking, 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine, 
And  breathe  a  prayer  in  silence, 

At  a  mother's  broken  shrine, 
For  the  woman  who  rocks  the  baby 

In  the  room  just  next  to  mine. 

MADGE  MORRIS. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.      237 

Sweet  love  may  bring  to  us  this  day  supreme, 
Or  it  may  thrill  our  souls  through  art  or  song, 
Or  meet  us  where  red  battle-surges  foam  ; 

Hope's  stranded  wrecks  the  barren  coasts  may  gleam, 
And  weeks  and  months  rush  by,  a  sombre  throng, 
But  sometime,  somewhere,  it  will  surely  come. 

THOMAS  S.  COLLIER 


WHEN   MY   SHIP  COMES  IN. 

SOMEWHERE,  out  on  the  blue  seas  sailing, 

Where  the  winds  dance  and  spin ; 
Beyond  the  reach  of  my  eager  hailing, 

Over  the  breakers'  din ; 
Out  where  the  dark  storm-clouds  are  lifting, 
Out  where  the  blinding  fog  is  drifting, 
Out  where  the  treacherous  sand  is  shifting, 
My  ship  is  coming  in. 

Oh,  I  have  watched  till  my  eyes  were  aching, 

Day  after  weary  day ; 
Oh,  I  have  hoped  till  nry  heart  was  breaking, 

While  the  long  nights  ebbed  away ; 
Could  I  but  know  where  the  waves  had  tossed  her, 
Could  I  but  know  what  storms  had  crossed  her, 
Could  I  but  know  where  the  winds  had  lost  her, 

Out  in  the  twilight  gray  I 

But  though  the  storms  her  course  have  altered, 

Surely  the  port  she  '11  win ; 
Never  my  faith  in  my  ship  has  faltered, 

I  know  she  is  coming  in. 
For  through  the  restless  ways  of  her  roaming, 
Through  the  mad  rush  of  the  wild  waves  foaming, 
Through  the  white  crest  of  the  billows  combing, 

My  ship  is  coming  in. 

Breasting  the  tides  where  the  gulls  are  flying, 

Swiftly  she  's  coming  in  ; 
Shallows  and  deeps  and  rocks  defying, 

Bravely  she  's  coming  in  ; 
Precious  the  love  she  will  bring  to  bless  me, 
Snowy  the  arms  she  will  bring  to  caress  me, 
In  the  proud  purple  of  kings  she  will  dress  me, 

My  ship  that  is  coming  in. 

White  in  the  sunshine  her  sails  will  be  gleaming, 

See,  where  my  ship  comes  in  ; 
At  mast-head  and  peak  her  colors  streaming, 

Proudly  she  's  sailing  in ; 


238  THE  HUMBLER  POETS.     . 

Love,  hope,  and  joy  on  her  decks  are  cheering, 
Music  will  welcome  her  glad  appearing, 
And  my  heart  will  sing  at  her  stately  nearing, 
When  my  ship  comes  in. 

ROBERT  J.  BURDETTE. 


SILENCE. 

IN  silence  mighty  things  are  wrought  — 
Silently  builded,  thought  on  thought, 

Truth's  temple  greets  the  sky ; 
And  like  a  citadel  with  towers, 
The  soul  with  her  subservient  powers 

Is  strengthened  silently. 

LYNCH. 


OUTWARDS   OR  HOMEWARDS. 

STILL  are  the  ships  that  in  haven  ride, 
Waiting  fair  winds  or  a  turn  of  the  tide  ; 
Nothing  they  fret,  though  they  do  not  get 
Out  on  the  glorious  ocean  wide. 
Oh,  wild  hearts,  that  yearn  to  be  free, 
Look,  and  learn  from  the  ships  of  the  sea ! 

Bravely  the  ships,  in  the  tempest  tossed, 

Buffet  the  waves  till  the  sea  be  crossed; 

Not  in  despair  of  the  haven  fair, 

Though  winds  blow  backward,  and  leagues  be  lost ; 

Oh,  weary  hearts,  that  yearn  for  sleep, 

Look,  and  learn  from  the  ships  of  the  deep  ! 

F.  W.  BOURDILLON 


THE  JOY   OF  INCOMPLETENESS. 

IF  all  our  life  were  one  broad  glare 

Of  sunlight,  clear,  unclouded ; 
If  all  our  path  were  smooth  and  fair, 

By  no  soft  gloom  enshrouded ; 
If  all  life's  flowers  were  fully  blown 

Without  the  sweet  unfolding, 
And  happiness  were  rudely  thrown 
On  hands  too  weak  for  holding  — 

Should  we  not  miss  the  twilight  hours, 

The  gentle  haze  and  sadness  ? 
Should  we  not  long  for  storms  and  showers 
To  break  the  constant  gladness  ? 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       239 

If  none  were  sick  and  none  were  sad, 

What  service  could  we  render  ? 
I  think  if  we  were  always  glad, 
We  scarcely  could  be  tender. 
Did  our  beloved  never  need 
Our  patient  ministration, 
Earth  would  grow  cold  and  miss  indeed 
Its  sweetest  consolation ; 
If  sorrow  never  claimed  our  heart, 

And  every  wish  were  granted, 
Patience  would  die,  and  hope  depart  — 
Life  would  be  disenchanted. 

And  yet  in  heaven  is  no  more  night, 

In  heaven  is  no  more  sorrow ! 
Such  unimagined  new  delight 

Fresh  grace  from  pain  will  borrow. 
As  the  poor  seed  that  underground 

Seeks  its  true  life  above  it, 
Not  knowing  what  will  there  be  found 
When  sunbeams  kiss  and  love  it, 
So  we  in  darkness  upward  grow, 
And  look  and  long  for  heaven, 
But  cannot  picture  it  below 
Till  more  of  light  be  given. 

NOTE.  —  A  more  complete  version  of  this  anonymous  poem  than  that  found 
in  Harper's  Encyclopaedia  of  Poetry ',  in  which  the  last  eight  lines  given  here 
are  missing. 


A  PLEA   FOR  "CASTLES   IN  THE  AIR." 

AMID  the  myriad  troubles  that  meet  us  day  by  day, 
Who  would  not  from  the  conflict  a  moment  turn  away, 
And  in  a  far-off  fairy-land,  where  men  no  burdens  bear, 
Forget  awhile  our  tears  and  toil  in  "  castles  in  the  air  "  ? 

When  many  a  bright-hued  prospect  fades  fast  beyond  our  view, 
And  hopes  which  neared  fruition  prove  shadowy  and  untrue ; 
May  we  not  in  that  dreamland,  beyond  all  clouds  and  care, 
Behold  our  Paradise  restored  in  "  castles  in  the  air  "  ? 

Oh,  there  are  lonely  chambers  in  every  home  and  heart  — 
And  in  life's  song  of  sorrow  each  one  must  bear  a  part. 
But  hark !  what  mystic  melodies  soon  hush  the  voice  of  care, 
As  parted  hands  are  clasped  once  more  in  "  castles  in  the  air." 

Then  never  grow  discouraged  though  fortune  favors  not, 
And  we  pursue  life's  pilgrimage  unnoticed  or  forgot ; 
We  have  an  hour  of  victory  and  lustrous  laurels  wear  — 
For  all  are  kings  and  conquerors  in  "  castles  in  the  air." 

JACOB  GOUGH 


240  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


LEARN  TO  WAIT. 

LEARN  to  wait  —  life's  hardest  lesson, 

Conned  perchance,  through  blinding  tears, 

While  the  heart-throbs  sadly  echo 
To  the  tread  of  passing  years. 

Learn  to  wait  —  hope's  slow  fruition  ; 

Faint  not,  though  the  way  seem  long ; 
There  is  joy  in  each  condition, 

Hearts,  through  suffering,  may  grow  strong. 

Constant  sunshine,  howe'er  welcome, 
Ne'er  would  ripen  fruit  or  flower ; 

Giant  oaks  owe  half  their  greatness 
To  the  scathing  tempest's  power. 

Thus  a  soul  untouched  by  sorrow 

Aims  not  at  a  higher  state  ; 
Joy  seeks  not  a  brighter  morrow, 

Only  sad  hearts  learn  to  wait. 

Human  strength  and  human  greatness 
Spring  not  from  life's  sunny  side ; 

Heroes  must  be  more  than  driftwood 
Floating  on  a  waveless  tide. 


BETTER  TO   CLIMB  AND   FALL. 

GIVE  me  a  man  with  an  aim, 

Whatever  that  aim  may  be, 
Whether  it 's  wealth,  or  whether  it 's  fame, 

It  matters  not  to  me. 
Let  him  walk  in  the  path  of  right, 

And  keep  his  aim  in  sight, 
And  work  and  pray  in  faith  alway, 

With  his  eye  on  the  glittering  height. 

Give  me  a  man  who  says,  — 

"  I  will  do  something  well, 
And  make  the  fleeting  days 

A  story  of  labor  tell." 
Though  the  aim  he  has  be  small, 

It  is  better  than  none  at  all ; 
With  something  to  do  the  whole  year  through 

He  will  not  stumble  or  fall. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       241 

But  Satan  weaves  a  snare 

For  the  feet  of  those  who  stray 
With  never  a  thought  or  care 

Where  the  path  may  lead  away. 
The  man  who  has  no  aim, 

Not  only  leaves  no  name 
When  this  life  is  done,  but  ten  to  one 

He  leaves  a  record  of  shame. 

Give  me  a  man  whose  heart 

Is  filled  with  ambition's  fire  ; 
Who  sets  his  mark  in  the  start, 

And  keeps  moving  it  higher  and  higher. 
Better  to  die  in  the  strife, 

The  hands  with  labor  rife, 
Than  to  glide  with  the  stream  in  an  idle  dream, 

And  lead  a  purposeless  life. 

Better  to  strive  and  climb, 

And  never  reach  the  goal, 
Than  to  drift  along  with  time, 

An  aimless,  worthless  soul. 
Ay,  better  to  climb  and  fall, 

Or  sow,  though  the  yield  be  small, 
Than  to  throw  away  day  after  day, 

And  never  to  strive  at  all. 


BY   AND   BY. 

WAS  the  parting  very  bitter  ? 

Was  the  hand  clasped  very  tight  ? 
Is  a  storm  of  tear-drops  falling 

From  a  face  all  sad  and  white  ? 
Think  not  of  it,  in  the  future, 

Calmer,  fairer  days  are  nigh  — 
Gaze  not  backward,  but  look  onward 

For  a  sunny  "  by  and  by." 

Was  the  priceless  love  you  lavished, 

Sought  for,  played  with,  and  then  slain  ? 
Were  its  crushed  and  quivering  remnants 

Calmly  thrown  you  back  again  ? 
Calmly,  too,  those  remnants  gather, 

Bring  them  home  without  a  sigh ; 
Sweet  returns  they  yet  shall  bring  you 

In  the  coming  "  by  and  by." 

Are  the  eyelids  very  heavy  ? 

Does  the  tired  head  long  for  rest  ? 
Are  the  temples  hot  and  throbbing, 

And  the  hands  together  pressed  ? 
10 


242  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Hope  shall  lay  you  on  her  bosom, 
Cool  the  poor  lips  parched  and  dry, 

And  shall  whisper,  "  Rest  is  coming  — 
Rest  forever,  '  by  and  by.' " 

And  when  calmed  and  cheered  and  freshened 

By  her  soul-inspiring  voice, 
Then  look  up,  the  heavens  are  brightening  — 

Cease  your  wailing  and  rejoice. 
Cry  not  for  the  days  departed, 

None  will  hear  you,  none  reply; 
But  look  up  where  light  is  breaking 

O'er  a  brighter  "  by  and  by." 


FAILURE. 

THE  Lord,  who  fashioned  my  hands  for  working, 

Set  me  a  task  and  it  is  not  done ; 
I  have  tried  and  tried  since  the  early  morning, 

And  now  to  the  westward  sinketh  the  sun. 

Noble  the  task  that  was  kindly  given 

To  one  so  little  and  weak  as  I,  — 
Somehow  my  strength  would  never  grasp  it, 

Never  as  days  and  years  flew  by. 

Others  found  me  cheerfully  toiling, 

Showed  me  their  work  as  they  passed  away ; 

Filled  were  their  hands  to  overflowing, 
Proud  were  their  hearts,  and  glad  and  gay. 

Laden  with  harvest  spoils  they  entered 
In  at  the  golden  gate  of  their  rest ; 

Laid  their  sheaves  at  the  feet  of  the  Master, 
Found  their  places  among  the  blest. 

Happy  are  those  who  strove  to  help  me  — 

Failing  ever  in  spite  of  their  aid ; 
Fain  would  their  love  have  borne  me  with  them, 

But  I  was  unready  and  sore  afraid. 

Now  I  know  my  task  will  never  be  finished, 
And  when  the  Master  calleth  my  name, 

His  voice  will  find  me  still  at  my  labor, 
Weeping  beside  it  in  weary  shame. 

With  empty  hands  I  shall  rise  to  meet  him, 
And  when  he  looks  for  the  fruit  of  years, 

Nothing  have  I  to  lay  before  him 
But  broken  efforts  and  bitter  tears. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CVATfAlV'f MZWr.      243 

Yet  when  he  calls  I  fain  would  hasten  — 
Mine  eyes  are  dim  and  their  light  is  gone ; 

And  I  am  wearv  as  though  I  carried 
A  burden  of  beautiful  work  well  done. 

I  will  fold  my  empty  hands  on  my  bosom  — 

Meekly  thus,  in  the  shape  of  a  cross; 
And  the  Lord,  who  made  me  so  frail  and  feeble, 

Maybe  will  pity  their  strife  and  loss. 


NEAR  THE  DAWN. 

WHEN  life's  troubles  gather  darkly 

Round  the  way  we  follow  here, 
When  no  hope  the  sad  heart  lightens, 

No  voice  speaks  a  word  of  cheer ; 
Then  the  thought  the  shadow  scatters, 

Giving  us  a  cheering  ray,  — 
When  the  night  appears  the  darkest, 

Morning  is  not  far  away. 

When  adversity  surrounds  us, 

And  our  sunshine  friends  pass  by, 
And  the  dreams  so  fondly  cherished 

With  our  shattered  treasures  lie  ; 
Then  amid  such  gloomy  seasons 

This  sweet  thought  can  yet  be  drawn,  — 
When  the  darkest  hour  is  present, 

It  is  always  near  the  dawn. 

When  the  spirit  fluttering  lingers 

On  the  confines  of  this  life, 
Parting  from  all  joyful  memories, 

And  from  every  scene  of  strife, 
Though  the  scene  is  sad  and  gloomy, 

And  the  body  shrinks  in  fear, 
These  dark  hours  will  soon  be  vanished, 

And  the  glorious  morn  be  here. 

Pain  cannot  affect  us  always, 

Brighter  days  will  soon  be  here ; 
Sorrow  may  oppress  us  often, 

Yet  a  happier  time  is  near ; 
All  along  our  earthly  journey 

This  reflection  lights  the  way,  — 
Nature's  darkest  hour  is  always 

Just  before  the  break  of  day. 


244  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


MAGDALENA. 

MAGDALENA'S  robes  are  trailing  through  the  highway's  soiling 
dust, 

Spotless  hem  and  seam  are  glazing  over  with  apparent  rust ; 

Hooded  cloak  conceals  the  contour  of  her  drooping  head  and 
face, 

Hiding  outline  and  proportion  of  her  form  whose  step  is  grace. 

Small  her  feet  and  arched  her  instep  gliding  onward  travel- 
stained  — 

Feet  whose  wealth  and  pride  of  birthright  have  the  common 
earth  disdained. 

Who  can  prove  that  Magdalena  walks  alone  in  strange  dis- 
guise ? 

Who  unclasp  the  hooded  mantle  hiding  face  and  veiling  eyes  ? 

Magdalena  lives  in  grandeur,  and  the  nobles  round  her  wait, 
And  her  chariot  on  the  highway  bears  armorial  gauds  of  state  ; 
Fair  and  proud  is  Magdalena,  pride  of  birth  and  pride  of 

scorn ; 
Fairer,  earth  ne'er  gave  existence  since  the  day  that  Eve  was 

born. 
Form  as  stately,  mould  as  perfect,  eyes  of  blue  and  forehead 

fair, 
Crowned  with  woman's  crown  of  glory  —  wondrous  waves  of 

golden  hair. 

Magdalena  loves  in  secret,  loves  the  lowliest  fisher's  son ;  — 
She  can  never  wed  the  Gentile  who  her  faith  and  soul  has 

won; 

He  is  brave  and  tall  and  graceful,  fair  as  any  son  of  earth, 
But  his  grace  is  all  of  nature,  not  from  gentle  blood  and  birth. 
Yesterday  the  highest  ruler  in  the  land  of  Judah  came, 
Kneeling  at  her  feet  in  splendor,  offering  her  his  hand  and 

name; 
But  he  tarried  not  till  evening,  whispering  love  vows  'neath 

the  moon, 
Rode  away  in  crimson  anger,  anger  o'er  his  slighted  boon. 

Magdalena,  pale  with  passion,  struggling  in  her  bonds  of  love, 
Envying  every  meaner  thing  from  mated  man  to  mated  dove, 
Spurns  the  laws  of  men  and  birthright,  spurns  the  laws  of 

maiden  shame, 
Scorns  the  ruler  and  his  greatness,  scorns  alike  her  wealth  and 

fame ; 
Heeding  but  the  charm  which  draws  her  towards  the  fisher's 

manly  grace, 
Parting  with  the  hopes  of  woman  for  his  ardent  love  embrace. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.      245 

Magdalena's  cheeks  are  glowing  with  her  lover's  kisses  warm, 
And  his  manly  arms  close  folding  round  her  lithe  and  yielding 

form ; 
Nature  owns  no  paltry  barrier,  love  has  conquered  pride  of 

birth, 
And  their  wedded  souls  in  spirit  know  no  other  bonds  on 

earth. 
Wrapt  in  bliss  of  love's  elysium,  answering  pulse  and  beating 

heart,  — 
Fame  and  name  and  life  forgotten,  e'en  the  law  that  bids  them 

part. 

Magdalena's  fame  is  sullied,  like  her  robes  with  highway  dust ; 

Scribes  and  Pharisees  proclaim  her  sin  and  shame  before  the 
just; 

Fair  and  high-born  Magdalena,  drooping  form  and  head  low- 
bowed, 

Guilty  captive  at  the  mercy  of  a  coarse,  vindictive  crowd 

Clamoring  for  the  law  of  Moses,  so  to  stone  her  till  she  dies, 

Waiting  judgment  from  the  Master,  life  or  death  as  he  replies. 

Spies  have  proved  that  Magdalena  walks  alone  in  strange 
disguise, 

Torn  away  the  hooded  mantle  hiding  face  and  veiling  eyes. 

Magdalena  scorned  the  ruler ;  he  it  was  who  hired  the  spies, 
Into  all  her  secrets  prying,  forcing  off  her  strange  disguise, 
Tearing  from  the  fond  embraces  of  her  lover's  folding  arms, 
Forcing    her    from    love's  protection,   rudely  railing   at  her 

charms, 

Bringing  her  within  the  temple  with  her  head  and  bosom  bare, 
No  disguise  to  hide  her  blushes,  save  her  veil  of  golden  hair. 

Magdalena  stands  in  terror,  with  her  small  hands  tightly  pressed, 
Hiding  with  those  waves  of  glory  half  the  beauty  of  her  breast ; 
Torn  her  robes  and  lost  her  sandals,  vain  she  hides  her  gleam- 
ing feet, 

Guilt  ne'er  brought  so  fair  a  captive  pleading  at  a  mercyseat ; 

u~  who  never  knew  the  passion  of  the  sinner's  throbbing  soul, 

vs  his  spotless  head  in  pity  as  her  tears  of  anguish  roll. 


He 
Bows 


Magdalena's  eyes  are  heavy  with  their  penitential  tears, 
As  she  gazes  on  the  Master  and  his  words  of  mercy  hears  ; 
See  the  hideous  crowd  before  her,  dropping  each  his  vengeful 

stone, 

Gliding  out  with  guilty  faces,  leaving  her  with  him  alone. 
Jesus,  when  the  last  had  left  her,  gazed  in  pity  on  her  face, 
Gave  assurance  of  his  pardon  by  his  looks  and  words  of  grace, 
Gave  his  strength  to   Magdalena,  strength  to  walk  without 

disguise ; 
His  large  soul  of  purest  love-light  dried  her  penitential  eyes. 


246  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Magdalena's  robes  are  floating  in  the  pathway  of  the  just, 
Spotless  seam  and  hem  protected  from  the  earth's  corrosive 

rust ; 
Pride  of  wealth  and  pride  of  nature  made  subservient  to  the 

good, 

Thousands  bless  the  unknown  giver  for  the  boon  of  daily  food; 
And  the  manly  fisher,  leaving  tent,  and  net,  and  fisher's  rod, 
Follows  as  a  meek  disciple  worshipping  the  Son  of  God  ; 
In  his  strength  walks  Magdalena  evermore  without  disguise, 
Faithful  to  the  hand  that  saved  her  and  his  love-light  in  her 

eyes. 


WAITING. 

LISTENING,  yearning, 
While  the  lingering,  lengthening  shadows 

Link  the  twilight  to  the  day, 
While  the  dewy  breath  of  evening, 
Sweet  with  balm  from  far  away, 
Sways  the  drooping  passion-flower 
Clinging  to  my  lonely  bower, 
Where  I  sit,  heart-sore  and  weary, 
Facing  the  sad  sight  so  dreary ; 

Listening,  yearning 
For  a  step  that 's  ne'er  returning. 

Listening,  yearning  — 
Oh,  sad  heart,  be  stilled  thy  moaning, — 
Suns  may  wane  and  months  may  roll, 
Years  may  glide  in  silent  sorrow 
O'er  the  hope  that  mocks  my  soul. 
Hush  thy  wail  —  let  no  sharp  crying 
Strike  upon  the  dumb  hours,  flying, 
While  I  sit,  'mid  shadows  falling, 
Hoping,  hearkening,  watching,  calling, 

Listening,  yearning 
For  a  wanderer's  step  returning. 

Listening,  yearning  — 
Oh,  the  night  grows  cold  and  dreary, 

Loud  the  chill  wind  moans  and  sighs  — 
Ghostly  faces,  wan  and  eerie, 

Haunt  me  with  their  pitying  eyes  ; 

Ghosts  of  dead  hopes  vet  remaining  — 
With  their  sad  eyes  still  complaining 
Though  their  mute  lips  make  no  wailing, 
Ah,  lone  watch  so  unavailing  1 

Listening,  yearning 
For  a  dear  one's  step  returning. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.      247 

Listening,  yearning  — 
Bleak  the  night,  and  storm-clouds  gather, 
Light  grows  dim,  and  hope  grows  cold ; 
Closer  press  the  pitying  spectres  — 
Ah !  they  clasp  me  in  their  fold. 

Life  was  mournful  —  death  is  sweeter  — 
Memory  maketh  love  completer. 
Dear,  through  evening  shadows  falling, 
Nevermore  I  wait  thee,  calling, 

Listening,  yearning 
For  thy  step  too  late  returning. 

Listening,  yearning  — 
O'er  the  battlements  celestial, 

See  the  pure-browed  seraphs  lean 
Earthward,  keeping  calms  of  silence, 
Waves  of  pulsing  songs  between. 
Oh,  by  Love  Divine  once  yearning 
O'er  a  world,  Love's  call  proud  spurning, 
Love  for  loss  full  compensating,  — 
I  adjure  thee,  seek  me,  waiting, 

Listening,  yearning, 
Down  from  heaven  for  thy  returning. 


HEADS,  HEARTS,  AND  HANDS. 

HEADS  that  think  and  hearts  that  feel, 
Hands  that  turn  the  busy  wheel, 
Make  our  life  worth  living  here, 
In  this  mundane  hemisphere  : 
Heads  to  plan  what  hearts  shall  do, 
Hearts  to  bear  us  bravely  through  — 
Thinking  head  and  toiling  hand 
Are  the  masters  of  the  land. 

When  a  thought  becomes  a  thing, 
Busy  hands  make  hammers  ring 
Until  honest  work  has  wrought 
Into  shape  the  thinker's  thought ; 
Which  will  aid  to  civilize, 
And  make  nations  great  and  wise, 
Lifting  to  a  lofty  height 
In  this  age  of  thought  and  light. 

Miracles  of  science  show 
With  their  light  the  way  to  go ; 
Touch  a  tube  of  gas,  and  light 
Blossoms  like  the  stars  of  night  j 


248  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Touch  another  tube,  and  lo  ! 

Streams  of  crystal  waters  flow ; 
Touch  a  telegraphic  wire, 
And  your  thought  has  wings  of  fire. 

Hail  to  honest  hearts  and  hands, 
And  to  the  head  that  understands  ; 
Hands  that  dare  to  truth  subscribe, 
Hands  that  never  touched  a  bribe ; 
Hearts  that  hate  a  deed  unjust, 
Hearts  that  other  hearts  can  trust ; 
Heads  that  plan  for  others'  weal, 
Heads  poised  over  hearts  that  feel. 

GEORGE  W.  BUNGAY. 


THROUGH   TOIL. 

I  HOLD  it  better  far  that  one  should  rule 
Imperious  tempers  with  a  sinewy  will, 
Than,  amiable  and  passionless  of  soul, 
With  folded  hands  amid  life's  din  sit  still. 
Since,  though  ofttimes  the  battle  goeth  hard, 
Strength  comes  with  struggle,  and  wild  olive  leaves 
Twined  round  a  brow  begrimed  and  battle-scarred 
Mean  more  to  noble  men  and  nobler  gods 
Than  costliest  purples  of  inglorious  ease. 

Though  tired  men  through  toil-encumbered  years 
Seek  restful  havens,  lotus-lands  of  dreams, 
Who  that  hath  seen  doth  evermore  forget 
What  glory  o'er  his  burnished  armor  gleams 
Who  fights  with  grosser  self,  or  crushes  down 
With  stalwart  blows  the  vices  of  his  age, 
Thridding  the  austere  heights  of  chaste  renown  ? 
The  victor's  joy  Fate  nevermore  reveals 
To  sluggish  souls,  —  nor  his  transcendent  peace. 

A.  L. 


"TIME  TO  ME." 

TIME  to  me  this  truth  hath  taught, 
'T  is  a  truth  that 's  worth  revealing : 

More  offend  from  want  of  thought 
Than  from  want  of  feeling. 

If  advice  we  would  convey. 

There  's  a  time  we  should  convey  it ; 
If  we  've  but  a  word  to  say, 

There  's  a  time  in  which  to  say  it. 


MOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.      249 

Many  a  beauteous  flower  decays, 
Though  we  tend  it  e'er  so  much  j 

Something  secret  on  it  preys, 
Which  no  human  aid  can  touch. 

So  in  many  a  loving  breast 
Lies  some  canker-grief  concealed, 

That,  if  touched,  is  more  oppressed, 
Left  unto  itself —  is  healed  ! 

Oft,  unknowingly,  the  tongue 

Touches  on  a  chord  so  aching 
That  a  word  or  accent  wrong 

Pains  the  heart  almost  to  breaking. 

Many  a  tear  of  wounded  pride, 
Many  a  fault  of  human  blindness, 

Has  been  soothed  or  turned  aside 
By  a  quiet  voice  of  kindness. 

Time  to  me  this  truth  hath  taught, 
'T  is  a  truth  that 's  worth  revealing : 

More  offend  from  want  of  thought 
Than  from  want  of  feeling. 


SOMEHOW  OR  OTHER. 

LIFE  is  a  burden  to  every  one's  shoulder ; 

None  may  escape  from  its  troubles  and  care ; 
Miss  it  in  youth  and  't  will  come  when  we  're  older, 

And  fit  us  as  close  as  the  garments  we  wear. 
Sorrow  comes  into  our  home  uninvited, 

Robbing  our  heart  of  its  treasures  of  song ; 
Lovers  grow  cold  and  our  friendships  are  slighted, 

Yet  somehow  or  other  we  worry  along. 

Midst  the  sweet  blossoms  that  smile  on  our  faces 

Grow  the  rank  weeds  that  would  poison  and  blight ; 
And  e'en  in  the  midst  of  earth's  beautiful  places 

There  Js  always  a  something  that  is  n't  just  right. 
Yet  oft  from  the  rock  we  may  pick  a  gay  flower, 

And  drink  from  a  spring  in  a  desolate  waste ; 
They  come  to  the  heart  as  a  heavenly  dower, 

And  nought  is  so  sweet  to  the  eye  or  the  taste. 

Every-day  toil  is  an  every-day  blessing, 

Though  poverty's  cottage  and  crust  we  may  share ; 

Weak  is  the  back  on  which  burdens  are  pressing, 

But  stout  is  the  heart  which  is  strengthened  by  prayer. 


250  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Somehow  or  other  the  pathway  grows  brighter 

Just  when  we  mourned  there  was  none  to  befriend; 

Hope  in  the  heart  makes  the  burden  seem  lighter, 
And  somehow  or  other  we  get  to  the  end. 


FALLEN. 

HERE  is  my  hand, 

0  weary  one  — 

A  smile  for  love  defiled, 
A  tear  for  hope  reviled, 
A  brother's  faith  for  her  whom  men  are  taught  to  shun. 

What  men  may  do  or  say 

1  care  not  now  ; 
To  me  thou  art  a  ray 

Of  sunlight  —  borne  away 
By  too  sweet  dreams  of  earth,  whose  shadows  haunt  thy  brow. 

The  visions  I  recall  — 

Thy  girlish  face, 
Thy  voice  like  music's  fall, 
Thy  tender  glances,  all 
Thy  nature  like  the  heart  of  life's  impassioned  grace. 

And  now  thine  eyes  are  filled 

With  tears  of  shame ! 
Where  passion  burned  and  thrilled, 
Death's  angels  have  instilled 
The  anguish  and  remorse  that  lips  with  horror  frame. 

The  world's  taunts  hotly  burn 

Upon  thy  cheek ; 
Thy  pitiless  sisters  turn 
From  thy  sad  eyes,  and  spurn 
Thy  prayers — like  cries  of  sin  unworthy  to  bespeak. 

Yet  art  thou  lost  indeed  ? 

O  stricken  soul ! 
Must  life  forever  bleed 
For  one  embittered  deed  ? 
Shall  all  the  golden  days  be  useless  to  console  ? 

Is  charity  then  dead, 

And  pity  blind  ? 
O  child  !  but  few  have  read 
Thy  heart.     Yet  I  have  shed 
Tears  scorching  as  thine  own  for  Christ's  love  undivined. 

GEO.  EDGAR  MONTGOMERY. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.      251 


PESSIMISM. 

"  Is  life  worth  living  ?  —  Well,  to  tell  you  true, 
It  scarcely  is,  if  all  men  were  like  you." 

BRIGHT-FACED  maiden,  bright-souled  maiden., 

What  is  this  that  I  must  hear  ? 
Is  thy  heart  with  sorrow  laden, 

Is  thine  eye  dimmed  with  a  tear  ? 
Can  it  be  that  lips  so  sweetly 

Rounded  to  be  kindly  kissed 
Could  be  twisted  indiscreetly 

To  the  vile  word  Pessimist? 
Not  for  thine  own  ills  thou  weepest ; 

Softly  feathered  is  thy  nest ; 
When  thou  wakest,  when  thou  sleepest, 

Thou  art  fortuned  with  the  best. 
But  thy  sisters  and  thy  brothers 

Pierced  with  many  a  woful  smart, 
Dying  children,  wailing  mothers, 

Fret  thy  nerve  and  stab  thy  heart. 
In  the  country,  in  the  city, 

Godless  deeds,  a  loveless  list, 
Stir  thy  blood  and  move  thy  pity, 

And  thou  art  a  PESSIMIST. 
Storms  and  wars  and  tribulations, 

Fevered  passions'  reinless  tide, 
With  insane  hallucinations 

Mingled,  travel  far  and  wide. 
Can  there  be  an  Eye  inspecting 

Things  so  tumbling  in  pell-mell, 
With  a  cool  control  directing 

Such  a  hotbed,  such  a  hell  ? 
Nay,  sweet  maid,  but  think  more  slowly ; 

Though  this  thing  and  that  be  sad, 
'T  is  a  logic  most  unholy 

That  the  gross  of  things  is  bad ; 
'T  is  a  trick  of  melancholy, 

Tainting  life  with  death's  alloy; 
Or  in  wisdom,  or  in  folly, 

Nature  still  delights  in  joy. 
Dost  thou  hear  of  starving  sinners,  — 

Nine  and  ten,  or  ninety-nine  ? 
Many  thousands  eat  good  dinners, 

Many  hundreds  quaff  good  wine. 
Hast  thou  seen  a  score  of  cripples? 

Equal  legs  are  not  uncommon ; 
If  you  know  one  fool  that  tipples, 

Thousands  drink  not  —  man  and  woman ; 


2  $2  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Tell  me  if  you  know  how  many 

Murders  happen  in  the  town  ? 
One  a  year,  perhaps,  if  any ; 

Should  that  weigh  your 'heart  quite  down? 
No  doubt,  if  you  read  the  papers, 

You  will  find  a  strange  hotch-potch  — 
Doting  dreams,  delirious  capers, 

Many  a  blunder,  blot,  and  blotch  ; 
Bags  of  windy  speculation, 

Babblement  of  small  and  great, 
Cheating,  swindling,  peculation, 

Squabblement  of  Church  and  State  ; 
Miners  blown  up,  humbugs  shown  up, 

Beaten  wives,  insulted  brides, 
Raving  preachers,  witless  teachers, 

Lunatics  and  suicides  ; 
Drains  and  cesspools,  faintings,  fevers, 

Poisoned  cats  and  stolen  collies, 
Simple  women,  gay  deceivers, 

Every  sort  and  size  of  follies ; 
Wandering  M.  P.'s  brainless  babble, 

Deputations,  meetings,  dinners, 
Riots  of  the  lawless  rabble, 

Purple  sins  of  West  End  sinners ; 
Driving,  dicing,  drinking,  dancing, 

Spirit  rapping,  ghostly  stuff ; 
Bubble  schemes  and  deft  financing, 

When  the  shares  are  blown  enough. 
All  this  is  true ;  when  men  cut  capers 

That  make  the  people  talk  or  stare, 
To-morrow  when  you  ope  the  papers 

You  're  sure  to  find  their  antics  there. 
But  you  and  I  and  all  our  neighbors 

Meanwhile,  in  pure  and  peaceful  ways, 
With  link  on  link  of  fruitful  labors, 

Draw  out  our  chain  of  happy  days. 
See  things  as  they  are  ;  be  sober  ; 

Balance  well  life's  loss  and  gain ; 
If  to-day  be  chill  October, 

Summer  suns  will  come  again. 
Are  bleak  winds  forever  sighing  ? 

Do  dark  clouds  forever  lower  ? 
Are  your  friends  all  dead  and  dying  ? 

All  your  sweetness  turned  to  sour  ? 
Great  men,  no  doubt,  have  sometimes  small  ways, 

But  a  horse  is  not  an  ass, 
And  a  black  snake  is  not  always 

Lurking  in  the  soft  green  grass. 
Don't  be  hasty,  gentle  lady, 

In  this  whirl  of  diverse  things 
Keep  your  footing,  and  with  steady 

Poise  control  your  equal  wings. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.      253 

All  things  can't  to  all  be  pleasant ; 

I  love  bitter,  you  love  sweet ; 
Some  faint  when  a  cut  is  present ; 

Rats  find  babies'  cheeks  a  treat. 
If  all  tiny  things  were  tall  things, 

If  all  petty  things  were  grand, 
Where  would  greatness  be,  when  all  things 

On  one  common  level  stand  ? 
Do  you  think  the  winged  breezes, 

Fraught  with  healthy  ventilation, 
When  a  tender  infant  sneezes 

Should  retreat  with  trepidation  ? 
When  dry  Earth  to  Heaven  is  calling 

For  soft  rain  and  freshening  dew, 
Shall  the  rain  refrain  from  falling 

Lest  my  lady  wet  her  shoe  ? 
Fools  still  rush  to  rash  conclusions, 

And  the  mole-eyed  minion,  man, 
Talks  of  troubles  and  confusions, 

When  he  sees  not  half  the  plan. 
Spare  to  blame  and  fear  to  cavil, 

With  short  leave  dismiss  your  pain, 
Let  no  fretful  fancies  revel 

In  the  sanctum  of  your  brain. 
Use  no  magnifying-glasses 

To  change  molehills  into  mountains, 
Nor  on  every  ill  that  passes 

Pour  hot  tears  from  bitter  fountains. 
Trust  in  God  and  know  your  duty ; 

Some  good  things  are  in  your  power ; 
Every  day  will  bring  its  booty 

From  the  labor  of  the  hour. 
Never  reck  what  fools  are  prating, 

Work  and  wait,  let  sorrow  lie ; 
"  Live  and  love  ;  have  done  with  hating," 

Goethe  says  —  and  so  say  I. 
Blackwood. 


DO  SOMETHING. 


IF  the  world  seems  cool  to  you, 

Kindle  fires  to  warm  it ! 
Let  their  comfort  hide  from  you 

Winters  that  deform  it. 
Hearts  as  frozen  as  your  own 

To  that  radiance  gather  ; 
You  will  soon  forget  to  moan, 

"  Ah  !  the  cheerless  weather  1 " 


2^4  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

If  the  world 's  a  "  vale  of  tears," 

Smile  till  rainbows  span  it ; 
Breathe  the  love  that  life  endears  — 

Clear  from  clouds  to  fan  it. 
Of  your  gladness  lend  a  gleam 

Unto  souls  that  shiver ; 
Show  them  how  dark  sorrow's  stream 

Blends  with  hope's  bright  river. 

LUCY  LARCOM. 


THE  GOLDEN   SIDE. 

THERE  's  many  a  rest  on  the  road  of  life, 

If  we  only  would  stop  to  take  it ; 
And  many  a  tone  from  the  better  land, 

If  the  querulous  heart  would  wake  it. 
To  the  sunny  soul  that  is  full  of  hope, 

And  whose  beautiful  trust  ne'er  faileth, 
The  grass  is  green  and  the  flowers  are  bright, 

Though  the  wintry  storm  prevaileth. 

Better  to  hope  though  the  clouds  hang  low, 

And  to  keep  the  eyes  still  lifted ; 
For  the  sweet  blue  sky  will  soon  peep  through, 

When  the  ominous  clouds  are  rifted. 
There  was  never  a  night  without  a  day, 

Nor  an  evening  without  a  morning  ; 
And  the  darkest  hour,  the  proverb  goes, 

Is  the  hour  before  the  dawning. 

There  is  many  a  gem  in  the  path  of  life, 

Which  we  pass  in  our  idle  pleasure, 
That  is  richer  far  than  the  jewelled  crown 

Or  the  miser's  hoarded  treasure  ; 
It  may  be  the  love  of  a  little  child, 

Or  the  mother's  prayer  to  Heaven, 
Or  only  a  beggar's  grateful  thanks 

For  a  cup  of  water  given. 

Better  to  weave  in  the  web  of  life 

A  bright  and  golden  filling, 
And  to  do  God's  will  with  a  ready  heart, 

And  hands  that  are  swift  and  willing, 
Than  to  snap  the  delicate  silver  threads 

Of  our  curious  lives  asunder, 
And  then  Heav'n  blame  for  the  tangled  ends, 

And  sit  and  grieve  and  wonder. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       2$$ 


WAITING. 

SERENE  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait, 
Nor  care  for  wind,  nor  tide,  nor  sea ; 

I  rave  no  more  'gainst  time  or  fate, 
For  lo  !  my  own  shall  come  to  me. 

I  stay  my  haste,  I  make  delays  ; 

For  what  avails  this  eager  pace  ? 
I  stand  amid  the  eternal  ways, 

And  what  is  mine  shall  know  my  face. 

Asleep,  awake,  by  night  or  day, 

The  friends  I  seek  are  seeking  me  ; 
No  wind  can  drive  my  bark  astray, 

Nor  change  the  tide  of  destiny. 

What  matter  if  I  stand  alone  ? 

I  wait  with  joy  the  coming  years ; 
My  heart  shall  reap  where  it  has  sown, 

And  garner  up  its  fruit  of  tears. 

The  waters  know  their  own,  and  draw 
The  brook  that  springs  in  yonder  heights ; 

So  flows  the  good  with  equal  law 
Unto  the  soul  of  pure  delights. 

Yon  floweret  nodding  in  the  wind 

Is  ready  plighted  to  the  bee  ; 
And,  maiden,  why  that  look  unkind  ? 

For  lo  !  thy  lover  seeketh  thee. 

The  stars  come  nightly  to  the  sky, 

The  tidal  wave  unto  the  sea  ; 
Nor  time,  nor  space,  nor  deep,  nor  high, 

Can  keep  my  own  away  from  me. 

JOHN  BURROUGHS. 


THE  GREEN  GRASS   UNDER  THE   SNOW. 

THE  work  of  the  sun  is  slow, 
But  as  sure  as  heaven,  we  know ; 

So  we  '11  not  forget, 

When  the  skies  are  wet, 
There 's  green  grass  under  the  snow. 

When  the  winds  of  winter  blow, 
Wailing  like  voices  of  woe, 

There  are  April  showers, 

And  buds  and  flowers, 
And  green  grass  under  the  snow. 


256  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


We  find  that  it 's  ever  so 
In  this  life's  uneven  flow ; 

We  've  only  to  wait, 

In  the  face  of  fate, 
For  the  green  grass  under  the  snow. 

ANNIE  A.  PRESTON. 


RAIN  IN   THE   HEART. 

"  Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall." 

IF  this  were  all  —  oh  !  if  this  were  all, 
That  into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall, 
There  were  fewer  sobs  in  the  poet's  rhyme, 
There  were  fewer  wrecks  on  the  shores  of  time. 

But  tempests  of  woe  dash  over  the  soul  — 
Since  winds  of  anguish  we  cannot  control ; 
And  shock  after  shock  are  we  called  to  bear, 
Till  the  lips  are  white  with  the  heart's  despair. 

The  shores  of  time  with  wrecks  are  strewn, 
Unto  the  ear  comes  ever  a  moan  — 
Wrecks  of  hope  that  set  sail  with  glee, 
Wrecks  of  love  sinking  silently. 

Many  are  hid  from  the  human  eye ; 
Only  God  knoweth  how  deep  they  lie  ; 
Only  God  heard  when  arose  the  prayer, 
"  Help  me  to  bear  —  oh !  help  me  to  bear." 

"  Into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall." 
If  this  were  all  —  oh  !  if  this  were  all ; 
Yet  there  's  a  refuge  from  storm  and  blast  — 
Gloria  Patri  —  we  '11  reach  at  last. 

Be  strong,  be  strong,  to  my  heart  I  cry, 
The  pearl  in  the  wounded  shell  doth  lie  ; 
Days  of  sunshine  are  given  to  all, 
Though  "  into  each  life  some  rain  must  fall." 


"GIVE  THANKS   FOR  WHAT?" 

"  LET  earth  give  thanks,"  the  deacon  said, 
And  then  the  Proclamation  read. 

"  Give  thanks  fer  what,  an'  what  about  ?  " 
Asked  Simon  Soggs  when  church  was  out ;  - 
"  Give  thanks  fer  what  ?     I  don't  see  why, 
The  rust  got  in  an'  spiled  my  rye, 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.      257 

And  hay  waVt  half  a  crop,  and  corn 
All  wilted  down  and  looked  forlorn. 
The  bugs  just  gobbled  my  pertaters 
The  what  you  call  'em  —  lineaters, 
And  gracious !  when  you  come  to  wheat, 
There 's  more  than  all  the  world  can  eat ; 
Onless  a  war  should  interfere, 
Crops  won't  bring  half  a  price  this  year ; 
I  '11  hev  to  give  'em  away,  I  reckon  !  " 

"  Good  for  the  poor  !  "  exclaimed  the  deacon. 

"  Give  thanks  fer  what  ?  "  asked  Simon  Soggs  i 

"  Fer  th'  freshet  carryin'  off  my  logs  ? 

Fer  Dobbin  goin'  blind  ?     Fer  five 

Uv  my  best  cows,  that  was  alive 

Afore  the  smashin'  railroad  come 

And  made  it  awful  troublesome  ? 

Fer  that  haystack  the  lightnin'  struck 

And  burnt  to  ashes  ?  —  thunderin'  luck  !  — 

Fer  ten  dead  sheep  ?  "  sighed  Simon  Soggs. 

The  deacon  said,  "  You  've  got  yer  hogs  ! " 

"  Give  thanks  ?    And  Jane  and  baby  sick  ? 
I  e'enmost  wonder  if  Ole  Nick 
Ain't  running  things  !  " 

The  deacon  said, 
"  Simon,  your  people  might  be  dead  !  " 

"  Give  thanks  !  "  said  Simon  Soggs  again. 

"  Jest  look  at  what  a  fix  we  're  in  ! 

The  country 's  rushin'  to  the  dogs 

At  race-horse  speed  !  "  said  Simon  Soggs. 

"  Rotten  all  through,  in  every  State  ; 

Why,  ef  we  don't  repudiate, 

We  '11  have  to  build,  for  big  and  small, 

A  poorhouse  that  '11  hold  us  all ! 

Down  South  the  crooked  whiskey-still 

Is  running  like  the  Devil's  mill. 

The  nigger  skulks  in  night's  disguise, 

And  hooks  a  chicken  as  he  flies. 

Up  North  there  's  murder  everywhere, 

And  awful  doings,  I  declare. 

Give  thanks  ?     How  mad  it  makes  me  feel 

To  think  how  office-holders  steal ! 

The  taxes  paid  by  you  and  me 

Is  four  times  bigger  'n  they  should  be. 

The  Fed'ral  Gover'ment  's  all  askew ; 

The  ballot 's  sech  a  mockery,  too  ! 

Some  votes  too  little,  some  too  much, 

Some  not  at  all  —  it  beats  the  Dutch  1 

17 


258  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  now  no  man  knows  what  to  do, 

Or  how  is  how  or  who  is  who. 

Deacon,  corruption 's  sure  to  kill ! 

This  '  glorious  Union  '  never  will, 

I  '11  bet  a  Continental  cent, 

Elect  another  President ! 

Give  thanks  fer  what,  I  'd  like  to  know! " 

The  deacon  answered,  sad  and  low, 
"  Simon,  it  fills  me  with  surprise 
Ye  don't  see  where  yer  duty  lies  ; 
Kneel  right  straight  down  in  all  the  muss, 
And  thank  God  that  it  ain't  no  wuss  1  " 
The  American  Queen. 


COMPENSATION. 

SHE  folded  up  the  worn  and  mended  frock, 

And  smoothed  it  tenderly  upon  her  knee, 
Then  through  the  soft  web  of  a  wee  red  sock 

She  wove  the  bright  wool,  musing  thoughtfully : 
"  Can  this  be  all  ?    The  outside  world  so  fair, 

I  hunger  for  its  green  and  pleasant  ways ; 
A  cripple  prisoned  in  her  restless  chair 

Looks  from  her  window  with  a  wistful  gaze. 

"The  fruits  I  cannot  reach  are  red  and  sweet, 

The  paths  forbidden  are  both  green  and  wide  ; 
O  God !  there  is  no  boon  to  helpless  feet 

So  altogether  sweet  as  paths  denied. 
Home  is  most  fair  ;  bright  all  my  household  fires, 

And  children  are  a  gift  without  alloy  ; 
But  who  would  bound  the  field  of  their  desires 

By  the  prim  hedges  of  mere  fireside  joy  ? 

"  I  can  but  weave  a  faint  thread  to  and  fro, 

Making  a  frail  woof  in  my  baby's  sock ; 
Into  the  world's  sweet  tumult  I  would  go, 

At  its  strong  gates  my  trembling  hand  would  knock.1 
Just  then  the  children  came,  the  father  too ; 

Their  eager  faces  lit  the  twilight  gloom  ; 
"  Dear  heart,"  he  whispered,  as  he  nearer  drew, 

"  How  sweet  it  is  within  this  little  room ! 

"  God  puts  my  strongest  comfort  here  to  draw 

When  thirst  is  great  and  common  wells  are  dry. 
Your  pure  desire  is  my  unerring  law, 

Tell  me,  dear  one,  who  is  so  safe  as  I  ? 
Home  is  the  pasture  where  my  soul  may  feed, 

This  room  a  paradise  has  grown  to  be ; 
And  only  where  these  patient  feet  shall  lead 

Can  it  be  home  to  these  dear  ones  and  me." 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       259 

He  touched  with  reverent  hand  the  helpless  feet, 

The  children  crowded  close  and  kissed  her  hair. 
"  Our  mother  is  so  good,  and  kind,  and  sweet, 

There 's  not  another  like  her  anywhere !  " 
The  baby  in  her  low  bed  opened  wide 

The  soft  blue  flowers  of  her  timid  eyes, 
And  viewed  the  group  about  the  cradle-side 

With  smiles  of  glad  and  innocent  surprise. 

The  mother  drew  the  baby  to  her  knee 

And,  smiling,  said :  "  The  stars  shine  soft  to-night ; 
My  world  is  fair ;  its  edges  sweet  to  me, 

And  whatsoever  is,  dear  Lord,  is  right." 


THE  SADDEST  FATE. 

To  touch  a  broken  lute, 

To  strike  a  jangled  string, 
To  strive  with  tones  forever  mute 

The  dear  old  tunes  to  sing  — 
What  sadder  fate  could  any  heart  befall  ? 
Alas !  dear  child,  never  to  sing  at  all. 

To  sigh  for  pleasures  flown, 

To  weep  for  withered  flowers, 
To  count  the  blessings  we  have  known, 

Lost  with  the  vanished  hours  — 
What  sadder  fate  could  any  heart  befall  ? 
Alas !  dear  child,  ne'er  to  have  known  them  all. 

To  dream  of  love  and  rest, 

To  know  the  dream  has  past, 
To  bear  within  an  aching  breast 

Only  a  void  at  last  — 
What  sadder  fate  could  any  heart  befall  ? 
Alas  1  dear  child,  ne'er  to  have  loved  at  all. 

To  trust  an  unknown  good, 

To  hope,  but  all  in  vain, 

Over  a  far-off  bliss  to  brood, 

Only  to  find  it  pain  — 
What  sadder  fate  could  any  soul  befall  ? 
Alas  !  dear  child,  never  to  hope  at  all. 


260  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

RIGHT  AND   WRONG. 

ALAS  !  how  hardly  things  go  right ! 
'T  is  hard  to  watch  on  a  summer's  night, 
For  the  sigh  will  come,  and  the  kiss  will  stay, 
And  the  summer's  night  is  a  winter's  day. 

Alas !  how  easily  things  go  wrong ! 
A  sigh  too  much  or  a  kiss  too  long, 
And  there  comes  a  mist  and  a  weeping  rain, 
And  life  is  never  the  same  again. 

And  yet  how  easily  things  go  right, 
If  the  sigh  and  the  kiss  of  the  summer's  night 
Come  deep  from  the  soul  in  the  stronger  ray 
That  is  born  in  the  light  of  the  winter's  day. 

And  things  can  never  go  badly  wrong 
If  the  heart  be  true  and  the  love  be  strong ; 
For  the  mist,  if  it  comes,  and  the  weeping  rain. 
Will  be  changed  by  the  love  into  sunshine  again. 


WHAT  OF  THAT? 

TIRED  !    Well,  what  of  that  ? 
Didst  fancy  life  was  spent  on  beds  of  ease, 
Fluttering  the  rose  leaves  scattered  by  the  breeze  ? 
Come,  rouse  thee  1  work  while  it  is  called  to-day ! 
Coward,  arise !  go  forth  upon  thy  way ! 

Lonely !    And  what  of  that  ? 
Some  must  be  lonely !  't  is  not  given  to  all 
To  feel  a  heart  responsive  rise  and  fall, 
To  blend  another  life  into  its  own. 
Work  may  be  done  in  loneliness.     Work  on. 

Dark !     Well,  and  what  of  that  ? 
Didst  fondly  dream  the  sun  would  never  set? 
Dost  fear  to  lose  thy  way  ?     Take  courage  yet ! 
Learn  thou  to  walk  by  faith  and  not  by  sight ; 
Thy  steps  will  guided  be,  and  guided  right. 

Hard !     Well,  and  what  of  that  ? 
Didst  fancy  life  one  summer  holiday, 
With  lessons  none  to  learn,  and  nought  but  play  ? 
Go,  get  thee  to  thy  task !     Conquer  or  die ! 
It  must  be  learned  1     Learn  it  then  patiently. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       261 

No  help !    Nay,  it 's  not  so ! 
Though  human  help  be  far,  thy  God  is  nigh, 
Who  feeds  the  ravens,  hears  his  children's  cry. 
He  's  near  thee,  wheresoe'er  thy  footsteps  roam, 
And  he  will  guide  thee,  light  thee,  help  thee  home. 


"BIDE  A   WEE,  AND  DINNA   FRET." 

Is  the  road  very  dreary  ? 

Patience  yet  I 

Rest  will  be  sweeter  if  thou  art  aweary, 
And  after  the  night  cometh  the  morning  cheery ; 

Then  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 

The  clouds  have  silver  lining, 

Don't  forget ; 

And  though  he  's  hidden,  still  the  sun  is  shining. 
Courage !  instead  of  tears  in  vain  repining, 

Just  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 

With  toil  and  cares  unending 

Art  beset  ? 

Bethink  thee  how  the  storms  from  heaven  descending 
Snap  the  stiff  oak,  but  spare  the  willow  bending, 

And  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 

Grief  sharper  sting  doth  borrow 

From  regret : 

But  yesterday  is  gone,  and  shall  its  sorrow 
Unfit  us  for  the  present  and  to-morrow  ? 

Nay  ;  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 

An  over-anxious  brooding 

Doth  beget 

A  host  of  fears  and  fantasies  deluding; 
Then,  brother,  lest  the  torments  be  intruding, 

Just  bide  a  wee,  and  dinna  fret. 
Leisure  Hour.  S.  E.  G 


WORK. 

IF  some  great  angel  spoke  to  me  to-night, 
In  awful  language  of  the  unknown  land, 

Bidding  me  choose  from  treasure  infinite, 
From  goodly  gifts  and  glories  in  his  hand, 


262  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

The  thing  I  coveted,  what  should  I  take  ? 

Fame's  wreath  of  bays  ?     The  fickle  world's  esteem  ? 
Nay,  greenest  bays  may  wave  on  brows  that  ache, 

And  world's  applauding  passeth  as  a  dream. 
Should  I  choose  love  to  fill  my  empty  heart 

With  soft,  strong  sweetness,  as  in  days  of  old  ? 
Nay,  for  love's  rapture  hath  an  after  smart, 

And  on  love's  rose  the  thorns  are  manifold. 
Should  I  choose  life  with  long  succeeding  years  ? 

Nay,  earth's  long  life  is  longer  time  for  tears. 
I  would  choose  work,  and  never-failing  power, 

To  work  without  weak  hindrance  by  the  way, 
Without  recurrence  of  the  weary  hour 

When  tired  tyrant  Nature  holds  its  sway 
Over  the  busy  brain  and  toiling  hand. 

Ah  !  if  an  angel  came  to  me  to-night, 
Speaking  in  language  of  the  unknown  land, 

So  would  I  choose  from  treasures  infinite. 
But  well  I  know  the  blessed  gift  I  crave, 

The  tireless  strength  for  never-ending  task, 
Is  not  for  this  life.     But  beyond  the  grave 

It  may  be  I  shall  find  the  thing  I  ask ; 
For  I  believe  there  is  a  better  land, 

Where  will  and  work  and  strength  go  hand  in  hand. 
All  the  Year  Round. 


THE   HARDEST  TIME  OF  ALL. 

THERE  are  days  of  silent  sorrow 

In  the  seasons  of  our  life  ; 
There  are  wild,  despairing  moments, 

There  are  hours  of  mental  strife ; 
There  are  times  of  stony  anguish, 

When  the  tears  refuse  to  fall ; 
But  the  waiting  time,  my  brothers, 

Is  the  hardest  time  of  all. 

Youth  and  love  are  oft  impatient, 

Seeking  things  beyond  their  reach ; 
But  the  heart  grows  sick  of  hoping 

Ere  it  learns  what  life  can  teach ; 
For  before  the  fruit  be  gathered 

We  must  see  the  blossoms  fall ; 
And  the  waiting  time,  my  brothers, 

Is  the  hardest  time  of  all. 

We  can  bear  the  heat  of  conflict, 
Though  the  sudden,  crushing  blow, 

Beating  back  our  gathered  forces, 
For  a  moment  lay  us  low ; 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       263 

We  may  rise  again  beneath  it 

None  the  weaker  for  the  fall ; 
But  the  waiting  time,  my  brothers, 

Is  the  hardest  time  of  all. 

For  it  wears  the  eager  spirit, 

As  the  salt  waves  wear  the  stone, 
And  the  garb  of  hope  grows  threadbare 

Till  the  brightest  tints  are  flown ; 
Then  amid  youth's  radiant  tresses 

Silent  snows  begin  to  fall ; 
Oh  !  the  waiting  time,  my  brothers, 

Is  the  hardest  time  of  all. 

But  at  last  we  learn  the  lesson 

That  God  knoweth  what  is  best ; 
For  with  wisdom  cometh  patience, 

And  with  patience  cometh  rest. 
Yea,  a  golden  thread  is  shining 

Through  the  tangled  woof  of  fate ; 
And  our  hearts  shall  thank  him  meekly, 

That  he  taught  us  how  to  wait. 

SARAH  DOUDNEY. 


AS   PEBBLES   IN  THE   SEA. 

WHO  shall  judge  man  from  his  manner, 

Who  shall  know  him  by  his  dress  ? 
Paupers  may  be  fit  for  palaces, 

Princes  fit  for  nothing  else. 
Crumpled  shirt  and  dirty  jacket 

May  beclothe  the  golden  ore 
Of  the  deepest  thoughts  and  feelings  — 

Satin  vest  can  do  no  more. 

There  are  streams  of  crystal  nectar 

Ever  flowing  out  of  stone ; 
There  are  purple  beds  and  golden 

Hidden,  crushed,  and  overthrown ; 
God,  who  counts  by  souls,  not  dresses, 

Loves  and  prospers  you  and  me, 
While  he  values  thrones  the  highest 

But  as  pebbles  in  the  sea. 

Man  upraised  above  his  fellows 

Oft  forgets  his  fellows  then  ; 
Masters  —  rulers  —  lords,  remember 

That  your  meanest  kind  are  men  ! 
Men  of  labor,  men  of  feeling, 

Men  of  thought  and  men  of  fame, 
Claiming  equal  rights  to  sunshine 

In  a  man's  ennobling  name. 


264  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

There  are  foam- embroidered  oceans, 

There  are  little  wood-clad  rills ; 
There  are  feeble  inch-high  saplings, 

There  are  cedars  on  the  hills. 
God,  who  counts  by  souls,  not  stations, 

Loves  and  prospers  you  and  me ; 
For  to  him  all  vague  distinctions 

Are  as  pebbles  in  the  sea. 

Toiling  hands  alone  are  builders 

Of  a  nation's  wealth  and  fame  ; 
Titled  laziness  is  pensioned, 

Fed  and  fattened  on  the  same  ; 
By  the  sweat  of  others'  foreheads, 

Living  only  to  rejoice, 
While  the  poor  man's  outraged  freedom 

Vainly  lifts  its  feeble  voice. 

Truth  and  justice  are  eternal, 

Born  with  loveliness  and  light ; 
Secret  wrongs  shall  never  prosper 

While  there  is  a  sunny  right ! 
God,  whose  world-wide  voice  is  singing 

Boundless  love  to  you  and  me, 
Sinks  oppression,  with  its  titles, 

But  as  pebbles  in  the  sea. 


FALSE  AND  TRUE. 

WE  grasp  a  hand,  we  think  it  true  and  strong, 
We  look  in  eyes  where  love-light  seems  to  play ; 

The  hand  we  hold  clings  but  to  guide  us  wrong, 
The  light  within  the  eyes  gleams  to  betray. 

We  feel  a  heart  beat  near  our  own,  close  pressed, 
We  think  it  echoes  back  love's  secret  lore, 

But  find  't  is  but  a  tool —  within  the  breast  — 
Of  curious  mechanism,  nothing  more. 

We  listen  to  soft  tones  from  lips  which  seem 

Too  regal  even  a  foe's  name  to  belie ; 
We  drink  their  freshness,  and  we  fondly  dream 

That  nought  can  mar  our  soul's  sweet  harmony. 

E'en  as  we  dream — forth  from  the  heart's  fair  gate 

Issue  barbed  words  which  pierce  us  through  and  through, 

Whilst  we,  bewildered,  find,  even  though  so  late, 
This  seal  of  royalty  is  earthly  too. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       265 

We  place  our  heart's  best  treasure,  trustingly, 

In  the  safe  keeping  of  a  thing  of  clay ; 
The  trust  is  broken.     Though  we  do  not  die, 

Our  faith  in  human  love  shows  slow  decay. 

We  tread  the  earth  to  find,  where'er  we  roam, 
Lips  fair  but  subtle,  heart-beats  quick  but  cold ; 

Lightnings  in  eyes  which  only  seem  love's  home, 
And  treachery  even  in  the  hand  we  hold. 

But  is  this  all  of  friendship,  love  ?    Ah,  no ! 

These  well-wrought  counterfeits  from  Satan's  hand 
To  me  conclusive  evidence  do  show    . 

That  the  pure  coin  is  still  in  good  demand. 

And  if  we  seal  our  hearts,  rolling  the  stone 
Of  cold  distrust  firmly  against  the  door, 

The  whitest  angel  near  love's  pearly  throne 
Can  roll  that  stone  away,  ah!  nevermore. 

So,  after  all,  't  is  better  that  we  err 
In  loving  overmuch,  though  oft  deceived, 

Than  make  our  heart  a  sealed  sepulchre 
From  which  the  angel  turns  away  aggrieved. 


PATIENT. 

I  WAS  not  patient  in  that  olden  time 

When  my  unchastened  heart  began  to  long 
For  bliss  that  lay  beyond  its  reach  ;  my  prime 

Was  wild,  impulsive,  passionate,  and  strong. 
I  could  not  wait  for  happiness  and  love, 

Heaven-sent,  to  come  and  nestle  in  my  breast ; 
I  could  not  realize  that  time  might  prove 

That  patient  waiting  would  avail  me  best. 
"  Let  me  be  happy  now,"  my  heart  cried  out, 

"  In  mine  own  way,  and  with  my  chosen  lot; 
The  future  is  too  dark  and  full  of  doubt 

For  me  to  tarry,  and  I  trust  it  not. 
Take  all  my  blessings,  all  I  am  and  have, 
But  give  that  glimpse  of  heaven  before  the  grave.** 

"  Ah  me  !  "  God  heard  my  wayward,  selfish  cry, 

And,  taking  pity  on  my  blinded  heart, 
He  bade  the  angel  of  strong  grief  draw  nigh, 

Who  pierced  my  bosom  in  its  tenderest  part. 
I  drank  wrath's  wine-cup  to  the  bitter  lees, 

With  strong  amazement  and  a  broken  will ; 
Then,  humbled,  straightway  fell  upon  my  knees, 

And  God  doth  know  my  heart  is  kneeling  still ; 


266  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

I  have  grown  patient,  seeking  not  to  choose 

Mine  own  blind  lot,  but  take  that  God  shall  send, 

In  which,  if  what  I  long  for  I  should  lose, 

I  know  the  loss  will  work  some  blessed  end,  — 

Some  better  fate  for  mine  and  me  than  I 

Could  ever  compass  underneath  the  sky. 


CONTENTMENT. 

HE  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great, 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door, 

Embittering  all  his  state. 


BEYOND   THE  HAZE. 
A  WINTER  RAMBLE  REVERIE. 

THE  road  was  straight,  the  afternoon  was  gray, 
The  frost  hung  listening  in  the  silent  air ; 
On  either  hand  the  rimy  fields  were  bare ; 

Beneath  my  feet  rolled  out  the  long  white  way, 

Drear  as  my  heart,  and  brightened  by  no  ray 
From  the  wide  winter  sun,  whose  disk  reclined 
In  distant,  copper  sullenness,  behind 

The  broken  network  of  the  western  hedge  — 

A  crimson  blot  upon  the  fading  day. 

Three  travellers  went  before  me,  —  one  alone, 
Then  two  together,  who  their  fingers  nursed 
Deep  in  their  pockets,  and  I  watched  the  first 
Lapse  in  the  curtain  the  slow  haze  had  thrown 
Across  the  vista  which  had  been  my  own  ; 
Next  vanished  the  chill  comrades,  blotted  out 
Like  him  they  followed  ;  but  I  did  not  doubt 
That  there  beyond  the  haze  the  travellers 
Walked  in  the  fashion  that  my  sight  had  known, 

Only  "  beyond  the  haze  ;  "  oh,  sweet  belief ! 

That  this  is  also  death  ;  that  those  we  Ve  kissed 
Between  our  sobs  are  just  "  beyond  the  mist ; " 

An  easy  thought  to  juggle  with  to  grief ! 

The  gulf  seems  measureless,  and  Death  a  thief. 
Can  we,  who  were  so  high  and  are  so  low, 
So  clothed  in  love,  who  now  in  tatters  go, 

Echo  serenely,  "Just  beyond  the  haze," 

And  of  a  sudden  find  a  trite  relief  ? 
Cornhill  Magazine. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       267 


CONTENT. 

MY  heart  and  I  but  lately  were  at  strife. 

She  fell  a-longing  for  a  certain  thing 
The  which  I  could  not  give  her,  and  my  life 

Grew  sick  and  weary  with  her  clamoring. 
God  knows  I  would  have  given  my  youth's  wide  scope 

To  buy  my  heart  but  one  brief,  blessed  day 
Of  the  blind  bliss  she  coveted  ;  but  hope, 

When  I  appealed  to  it,  turned,  dumb,  away. 
Until  hope  failed,  I  did  not  chide  my  heart, 

But  was  full  tender  to  her  misery,  — 
I  knew  how  hard  and  bitter  was  her  part ; 

But  when  I  saw  that  good  was  not  for  me, 
I  felt  that  time  and  tears  were  vainly  spent ; 
"  Heart,"  said  I,  "  hope  is  silent ;  be  content." 

Poor  heart !     She  listened,  earnest,  humble-wise, 

While  my  good  angel  gave  her  counsel  strong, 
Then  from  the  dust  and  ashes  did  arise, 

And  through  her  trembling  lips  broke  forth  a  song  j 
A  soothing  song,  that  grew  into  a  strain 

Of  praise  for  bliss  denied  as  well  as  given  : 
She  sang  it  then  to  charm  a  lingering  pain, 

She  sings  it  now  for  gladness,  morn  and  even. 
She  sings  it,  seeing  on  life's  garden  wall 

Love's  deep  red  roses  in  the  sunshine  stir, 
And  singing,  passes,  envying  not  at  all, 

Content  to  feel  that  love  is  not  for  her. 
The  roses  are  another's,  bloom  and  scent, 
My  heart  and  I  have  "  heart's-ease  "  —  and  content. 


CONTENTMENT. 

THE  banks  are  all  a  bustin',  Nance,  an'  things  is  goin'  to  smash ; 
The  people  sold  fur  credit  whar  they  'd  oughter  sell  fur  cash, 
An'  winter 's  bringin'  poverty  to  everybody's  door ; 
The  rich  can  stand  it  pretty  well  —  hit 's  orf ul  on  the  poor. 

The  workin'man  's  the  sufferer,  Nance,  he  's  got  no  work  to  do 

An'  folks  are  goin'  to  suffer  what  sufferin'  never  knew  ; 

An'  them  that 's  always  "  showin*  off  "  to  poor  folks  what  they  Ve 

got, 
You  '11  find,  perhaps,  that  they  '11  turn  out  the  poorest  of  the  lot. 

I  've  just  been  thinkin',  Nancy  Jane,  about  the  awful  muss, 
How  folks  had  better  live  an'  raise  thar  children  jist  like  us ; 
For  as  I  told  old  Deacon  Smith,  he  seed  it  all  was  true ; 
He  never  in  his  life  had  seed  two  folks  like  me  an'  you. 


268  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Our  home  's  an  old  log  cabin,  Nance,  half  hidden  in  the  woods ; 
Our  family's  rich  in  life  an'  health,  but  poor  in  this  "world's 

goods." 

We  hain't  no  fine  lace  curtains,  or  no  carpet  on  the  floor, 
But  the  sun  is  always  shinin'  through  the  window  an'  the  door. 

Our  farm  is  small  — we  've  got  a  spring,  an'  horses,  hogs,  an'  cows; 
We  've  gals  to  milk,  an'  cook,  an'  sew,  an'  boys  to  tend  the 

ploughs, 

We  've  got  no  gold  in  banks  that  bust,  nor  owe  no  man  a  cent  ; 
I  tell  you,  Nance,  the  Lord  is  good,  an'  we  should  feel  content. 

We  're  plain  an'  honest  country  folks,  an'  know  no  "  city  airs ; " 
We  read  the  Bible  every  night  before  we  kneel  in  prayers ; 
We  go  to  church  on  Sunday,  Nance,  an'  walk  jist  like  the  rest, 
An'  live  like  Christian  people  ought  —  we  try  to  do  what 's  best. 

Our  boys  are  not  like  city  boys,  who  from  their  duty  shirk, 
Whose  parents  raise  'em  up  to  think  't  is  a  disgrace  to  work ; 
Our  gals  ain't  like  them  city  gals  you  will  so  otten  meet, 
Who  ou^ut  to  help  their  mothers  more,  an'  run  less  on  the  street. 

You  don't  see  Thomas  Henry  pushin'  billiards  every  night, 
Or  loafin'  'bout  the  tavern  gittin'  treated  till  he 's  tight ; 
You  don't  find  him  a  runnin'  round  to  catch  some  damsel's  eye, 
Or  courtin'  of  some  gal  that  Js  rich,  whose  daddy 's  about  to  die. 

Ah,  Nance,  the  time  has  come  at  last  when  pride  must  have  a  fall, 
The  folks  will  find  the  workin'man  's  the  life  an'  prop  of  all ; 
The  farmer  's  independent,  Nance,  his  trade  will  never  spoil 
So  long  as  he  is  able  with  his  sons  to  till  the  soil. 

The  proud  aristocratic  folks,  who  sot  in  fortune's  door, 

Who  thought  they  'd  never  come  to  want,  are  busted  up  an'  poor ; 

Their  servants  gone,  their  horses  sold,  their  houses  an'  their 

lands, 
An'  everything,  except  their  lives,  is  in  the  sheriff's  hands. 

Old  woman,  put  your  knittin'  up ;  it 's  gittin'  purty  late, 
I  '11  read  about  two  chapters  in  the  Bible  if  you  '11  wait ; 
We  '11  pray  to  God  before  we  sleep,  as  every  Christian  ought ; 
An'  thank  him  not  for  what  we  want,  but  what  we  've  had  an'  got. 

WILL  S.  HAYES. 


THE   WORLD   AND  I. 

WHETHER  my  heart  be  glad  or  no, 

The  summers  come,  the  summers  go, 
The  lanes  grow  dark  with  dying  leaves, 
Icicles  hang  beneath  the  eaves, 
The  asters  wither  to  the  snow ; 

Thus  doth  the  summer  end  and  go, 
Whether  my  life  be  glad  or  no. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.        269 

Whether  my  life  be  sad  or  no, 

The  winters  come,  the  winters  go, 
The  sunshine  plays  with  baby  leaves, 
Swallows  build  about  the  eaves, 
The  lovely  wild  flowers  bend  and  blow ; 

Thus  doth  the  winter  end  and  go, 

Whether  my  life  be  sad  or  no. 

Yet  Mother  Nature  gives  to  me 
A  fond  and  patient  sympathy ; 
In  my  own  heart  I  find  the  charm 
To  make  her  tender,  near,  and  warm ; 
Through  summer  sunshine,  winter  snow, 
She  clasps  me,  sad  or  glad  or  no. 

NELLY  M.  HUTCHINSON. 


SATISFIED. 

WHERE  moss-made  beds  are  brightest  by  the  river, 

And  curtained  round  with  wondrous-woven  vines, 
I  lie  and  watch  the  water-lilies  quiver 

In  the  soft  shadow  of  the  haunted  pines,  — 
Lie,  as  in  dreams,  amidst  the  languid  laughter 

Of  waves  at  play  upon  the  harbor  bar, 
And  hear  the  sound  of  wings  that  follow  after 

The  wind  who  knoweth  where  the  bird-nests  are. 

So  sweet  the  hour,  I  cannot  well  remember 

If  care  has  been,  or  wearying  toil  or  pain, 
Or  life  low  leaning  to  a  drear  December, 

Or  vision  tortured  by  a  teary  rain ; 
The  eyes  of  sorrow  have  been  kissed  to  sleeping 

By  lips  where  many  a  tender  mystery  hides, 
Like  music  in  the  merry  waters,  keeping 

My  feet  from  climbing  up  the  mountain  sides. 

Upon  my  book  unread  a  bee  sits  sipping 

Wild  honey  from  the  fragrant  wild-rose  mark, 
And,  listening,  I  can  hear  the  dipping,  dipping 

Of  light  oars  piloting  a  home-bound  bark. 
A  new  life  flows  through  all  the  aisles  of  being ; 

I  seem  a  pulsing  portion  of  the  haze 
That  floats  and  floats  where  saints  sing  softlier,  seeing 

The  dawn  of  heaven's  own  Indian  summer  days. 

And  once  again,  oh,  once  again  is  lying 
Upon  my  heart  a  dainty,  dimpled  cheek, 

For  whose  young  bloom  my  lips  were  ever  crying 
In  the  old  time  of  which  I  cannot  speak. 


270  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

One  little  word  —  the  first  that  babies  mangle  — 
I  hear,  and  flush  with  mother-love  and  pride, 

Feeling  my  fingers  in  a  golden  tangle 

Of  locks  long  longed  for  —  and  am  satisfied. 
Home  Journal.  HESTER  A.  BENEDICT. 


RETROSPECTION. 

I  NOTE  this  morning  how  the  sunshine  falleth, 

Just  as  it  fell  one  morning  long  ago ; 
A  white  dove  walks  the  window-ledge,  soft  cooing ; 

The  waters  murmur  in  their  ebb  and  flow. 

The  aspen  whispers  to  the  autumn  breezes, 

I  see  the  golden-rod  on  sloping  hills ; 
I  catch  the  odors  of  the  brown  leaves  dying, 

And  hear  the  babble  of  the  shrunken  rills. 

I  listen  to  some  notes  of  children's  laughter, 
Smiling  to  think  how  late  I  was  a  child  — 

A  happy  elf  with  cheeks  of  sun-kissed  crimson, 
And  curls  of  tawny  gold,  wind-tossed  and  wild. 

The  very  winds  stir  memories  with  their  wailing, 
The  very  clouds  that  dot  the  azure  sky, 

The  heliotrope  within  my  window  blooming, 
Even  the  swallows  swiftly  skimming  by. 

On  a  dead  oak  that  lifts  its  leafless  branches 
A  raven  sits,  and  croaks  with  fretful  tone, 

Like  some  old  prophet  who  with  mystic  lore  foresees 
The  evil  that  he  sees  with  sob  and  moan. 

A  sense  of  pain,  half  hidden,  half  defined, 
Stirs  in  my  heart  an  unborn  babe  of  sorrow 

Whose  birth,  unwelcome  and  unasked,  with  wail 
Shall  usher  in  a  darker,  sadder  morrow. 

And  I  shall  meet  it  as  I  met  the  day  departed, 
With  pride  unbending  and  an  iron  will, 

That  holds  me  steadfast  in  the  path  I  chose,  but  hated, 
Yet  hating,  love,  and  loving,  loathe  it  still. 

I  see  and  hear  ;  I  know  I  am  not  dreaming  ; 

And  still  somehow  I  cannot  make  it  seem 
But  that  I  sleep,  and  hear  and  see  things  dimly, 

As  one  does  often  in  a  troubled  dream. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       271 

Ah,  well !  what  matter,  since  so  soon  for  all 

Our  struggles  and  our  dreams  will  have  an  ending, 

And  our  tired  hearts  and  brains  shall  rest  for  aye 
In  that  blest  land  to  which  our  feet  are  tending  ? 

GARNET  B.  FREEMAN- 


GOING  SOFTLY. 

SHE  makes  no  moan  above  her  faded  flowers, 

She  will  not  vainly  strive  against  her  lot, 
Patient  she  wears  away  the  slow,  sad  hours, 

As  if  the  ray  they  had  were  quite  forgot ; 
While  stronger  fingers  snatch  away  the  sword, 

And  lighter  footsteps  pass  her  on  the  ways, 
Yielding  submissive  to  the  stern  award 

That  said  she  must  go  softly  all  her  days. 

She  knows  the  pulse  is  beating  quickly  yet, 

She  knows  the  dream  is  sweet  and  subtle  still, 
That,  struggling  from  the  cloud  of  past  regret, 

Ready  for  conflict,  live  Hope,  Joy,  and  Will ; 
So  soon,  so  soon  to  veil  the  eager  eyes, 

To  dull  the  throbbing  ear  to  blame  or  praise, 
So  soon  to  crush  re-awakening  sympathies, 

And  teach  them  she  goes  softly  all  her  days. 

She  will  not  speak  or  move  beneath  the  doom, 

She  knows  she  had  her  day  and  flung  her  cast, 
The  loser  scarce  the  lauret  may  assume, 

Nor  evening  think  the  noonday  glow  can  last. 
Only,  oh  youth  and  love,  as  in  your  pride, 

Of  joyous  triumph  your  gay  notes  you  raise, 
Throw  one  kind  glance  and  word,  where,  at  your  side, 

She  creeps,  who  must  go  softly  all  her  days. 


"EN  VOYAGE." 

WHICHEVER  way  the  wind  doth  blow, 
Some  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so ; 
Then,  blow  it  east,  or  blow  it  west, 
The  wind  that  blows,  that  wind  is  best. 

My  little  craft  sails  not  alone ; 
A  thousand  fleets  from  every  zone 
Are  out  upon  a  thousand  seas  ; 
What  blows  for  one  a  favoring  breeze 
Might  dash  another  with  the  shock 
Of  doom  upon  some  hidden  rock. 


272  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  so  I  do  not  dare  to  pray 

For  winds  to  waft  me  on  my  way, 

But  leave  it  to  a  higher  Will 

To  stay  or  speed  me,  trusting  still 

That  all  is  well,  and  sure  that  He 

Who  launched  my  bark  will  sail  with  me 

Through  storm  and  calm,  and  will  not  fail, 

Whatever  breezes  may  prevail, 

To  land  me,  every  peril  past, 

Within  the  sheltered  haven  at  last. 

Then,  whatsoever  wind  doth  blow, 
My  heart  is  glad  to  have  it  so  ; 
And,  blow  it  east,  or  blow  it  west, 
The  wind  that  blows,  that  wind  is  best. 

CAROLINE  A.  MASON. 


WHAT   HOUSE  TO  LIKE. 

SOME  love  the  glow  of  outward  show, 

Some  love  mere  wealth  and  try  to  win  it ; 
The  house  to  me  may  lowly  be, 

If  I  but  like  the  people  in  it. 
What's  all  the  gold  that  glitters  cold, 

When  linked  to  hard  or  haughty  feeling  ? 
Whate'er  we  're  told,  the  noble  gold 

Is  truth  of  heart  and  manly  dealing. 
Then  let  them  seek,  whose  minds  are  weak, 

Mere  fashion's  smile  and  try  to  win  it ; 
The  house  to  me  may  lowly  be, 

If  I  but  like  the  people  in  it. 

A  lowly  roof  may  give  us  proof 

That  lowly  flowers  are  often  fairest ; 
And  trees  whose  bark  is  hard  and  dark 

May  yield  us  fruit  and  bloom  the  rarest. 
There  's  worth  as  sure  'neath  garments  poor 

As  e'er  adorned  a  loftier  station ; 
And  minds  as  just  as  those,  we  trust, 

Whose  claim  is  but  of  wealth's  creation. 
Then  let  them  seek,  whose  minds  are  weak, 

Mere  fashion's  smile,  and  try  to  win  it ; 
The  house  to  me  may  lowly  be, 

If  I  but  like  the  people  in  it. 


TIRED   OUT. 

HE  does  well  who  does  his  best ; 
Is  he  weary  ?  let  him  rest. 
Brothers  !  I  have  done  my  best, 
I  am  weary  —  let  me  rest. 


HOPE,  ENCOURAGEMENT,  CONTENTMENT.       273 

After  toiling  oft  in  vain, 
Baffled,  yet  to  struggle  fain, 
After  toiling  long,  to  gain 
Little  good  with  mickle  pain, 
Let  me  rest.     But  lay  me  low 
Where  the  hedge-side  roses  blow, 
Where  the  little  daisies  grow, 
Where  the  winds  a-maying  go, 
Where  the  footpath  rustics  plod, 
Where  the  breeze-bowed  poplars  nod, 
Where  the  old  woods  worship  God, 
Where  his  pencil  paints  the  sod, 
Where  the  wedded  throstle  sings, 
Where  the  young  bird  tries  his  wings, 
Where  the  wailing  plover  swings, 
Near  the  runlet's  rushing  springs  ! 
Where,  at  times,  the  tempests  roar, 
Shaking  distant  sea  and  shore, 
Still  will  rave  old  Barnesdale  o'er, 
To  be  heard  by  me  no  more  ! 
There,  beneath  the  breezy  west, 
Tired  and  thankful,  let  me  rest, 
Like  a  child  that  sleepeth  best 
On  its  mother's  gentle  breast. 


18 


PART    X. 
ife,  fteltgion,  anti 


Resembles  life  what  once  was  held  of  light, 
Too  ample  in  itself  for  human  sight  ? 
An  absolute  self?  an  element  ungrounded? 
All  that  we  see,  all  colors  of  all  shade 

By  encroach  of  darkness  made? 
Is  very  life,  my  consciousness,  unbounded  ? 
And  all  the  thoughts,  fains,  joys  of  mortal  breath 
A  war-embrace  of  wrestling  life  and  death  ? 

COLERIDGE. 


PART  X. 

Hife,  Religion,  anU  2Deatf)'s 


MY   AIM. 

I  LIVE  for  those  who  love  me,  whose  hearts  are  kind  and  true, 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me,  and  awaits  my  spirit 

too; 
For  all  human  ties  that  bind  me,  for  the  task  by  God  assigned 

me; 
For  the  bright  hopes  yet  to  find  me,  and  the  good  that  I  can 

do. 

I  live  to  learn  their  story  who  suffered  for  my  sake  ; 
To  emulate  their  glory  and  follow  in  their  wake  : 
Bards,  patriots,  martyrs,  sages,  the  heroic  of  all  ages, 
Whose  deeds  crowd  History's  pages,  and  Time's  great  volume 
make. 

I  live  to  hold  communion  with  all  that  is  divine, 
To  feel  there  is  a  union  'twixt  Nature's  heart  and  mine ; 
To  profit  by  affliction,  reap  truth  from  fields  of  fiction, 
Grow  wiser  from  conviction,  and  fulfil  God's  grand  design. 

I  live  to  hail  the  season,  by  gifted  ones  foretold, 
When  man  shall  live  by  reason,  and  not  alone  by  gold ; 
When  man  to  man  united,  and  every  wrong  thing  righted, 
The  whole  world  shall  be  lighted,  as  Eden  was  of  old. 

I  live  for  those  who  love  me,  for  those  who  know  me  true  ; 
For  the  heaven  that  smiles  above  me,  and  awaits  my  spirit 

too; 
For  the  cause  that  lacks  assistance,  for  the  wrong  that  needs 

resistance, 
For  the  future  in  the  distance,  and  the  good  that  I  can  do. 

G.  LINNAEUS  BANKS. 


THE   BRIDGE  OF  LIFE. 

ACROSS  the  rapid  stream  of  seventy  years 
The  slender  bridge  of  human  life  is  thrown ; 

The  past  and  future  form  its  mouldering  piers, 
The  present  moment  is  its  frail  keystone. 


278  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

From  "  dust  thou  art "  the  arch  begins  to  rise, 
"  To  dust "  the  fashion  of  its  form  descends, 

"  Shalt  thou  return,"  the  higher  curve  implies, 
In  which  the  first  to  the  last  lowness  bends. 

Seen  by  youth's  magic  light  upon  that  arch, 
How  lovely  does  each  far-off  scene  appear  ! 

But  ah  !  how  changed  when  on  the  onward  march 
Our  weary  footsteps  bring  the  vision  near  I 

'T  was  fabled  that  beneath  the  rainbow's  foot 
A  treasure  lay,  the  dreamer  to  bewitch ; 

And  many  wasted  in  the  vain  pursuit 
The  golden  years  that  would  have  made  them  rich 

So  where  life's  arch  of  many  colors  leads, 
The  heart  expects  rich  wealth  of  joy  to  find ; 

But  in  the  distance  the  bright  hope  recedes, 
And  leaves  a  cold,  gray  waste  of  care  behind. 

A  sunlit  stream  upon  its  bosom  takes 

The  inverted  shadow  of  a  bridge  on  high, 

And  thus  the  arch  in  air  and  water  makes 
One  perfect  circle  to  the  gazer's  eye. 

So  't  is  with  life  ;  the  things  that  do  appear 
Are  fleeting  shadows  on  time's  passing  tide, 

Cast  by  the  sunshine  of  a  larger  sphere 
From  viewless  things  that  changelessly  abide. 

The  real  is  but  the  half  of  life  ;  it  needs 

The  ideal  to  make  a  perfect  whole ; 
The  sphere  of  sense  is  incomplete,  and  pleads 

For  closer  union  with  the  sphere  of  soul. 

All  things  of  use  are  bridges  that  conduct 
To  things  of  faith,  which  give  them  truest  worth  j 

And  Christ's  own  parables  do  us  instruct 
That  heaven  is  but  a  counterpart  of  earth. 

The  pier  that  rests  upon  this  shore  's  the  same 
As  that  which  stands  upon  the  farther  bank ; 

And  fitness  for  our  duties  here  will  frame 
A  fitness  for  the  joys  of  higher  rank. 

Oh  !  dark  were  life  without  heaven's  sun  to  show 
The  likeness  of  the  other  world  in  this  ; 

And  bare  and  poor  would  be  our  lot  below 
Without  the  shadow  of  a  world  of  bliss. 

Then  let  us,  passing  o'er  life's  fragile  arch, 
Regard  it  as  a  means,  and  not  an  end ; 

As  but  the  path  of  faith  on  which  we  march 
To  where  all  glories  of  our  being  tend 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     279 


LIFE. 

A  BUSY  dream,  forgotten  ere  it  fades ; 

A  vapor,  melting  into  air  away ; 
Vain  hopes,  vain  fears,  a  mesh  of  lights  and  shades, 

A  checkered  labyrinth  of  night  and  day  — 
This  is  our  life  ;  a  rapid,  surging  flood, 

Where  each  wave  haunts  its  fellow  ;  on  they  press; 
To-day  is  yesterday  ;  and  Hope's  young  bud 

Has  fruited  a  to-morrow's  nothingness ; 
Still  on  they  press,  and  we  are  borne  along, 

Forgetting  and  forgotten ;  trampling  down 
The  living  and  the  dead  in  that  fierce  throng, 

With  little  heed  of  Heaven's  smile  or  frown, 
And  little  care  for  others,  right  or  wrong, 

So  we  in  iron  selfishness  stand  strong. 


LIFE. 
(FROM  THE  SPANISH.) 

OH  !  let  the  soul  its  slumber  break, 
Arouse  its  senses  and  awake, 

To  see  how  soon 
Life,  with  its  glory,  glides  away, 
And  the  stern  footsteps  of  decay 

Come  rolling  on. 

And  while  we  eye  the  rolling  tide 
Down  which  our  flowing  minutes  glide 

Away  so  fast, 

Let  us  the  present  hour  employ, 
And  dream  each  future  dream  of  joy 

Already  past. 

Let  no  vain  hope  deceive  the  mind ; 
No  happier  let  us  hope  to  find 

To-morrow  than  to-day. 
Our  golden  dreams  of  yore  were  bright : 
Like  them,  the  present  shall  delight ; 

Like  them,  decay. 

Our  lives  like  hasting  streams  must  be, 
That  into  one  engulfing  sea 

Are  doomed  to  fall,  — 
The  sea  of  death,  whose  waves  roll  on 
O'er  king  and  kingdom,  crown  and  throne, 

And  swallow  all. 


280  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Alike  the  river's  lordly  tide, 
Alike  the  humble  rivulet's  glide, 

To  that  sad  wave  ; 
Death  levels  poverty  and  pride, 
And  rich  and  poor  sleep  side  by  side 

Within  the  grave. 

Our  birth  is  but  the  starting-place, 
Life  is  the  running  of  the  race, 

And  death  the  goal ; 

There  all  those  glittering  toys  are  brought: 
The  path  alone  of  all  unsought 

Is  found  of  all. 

Say,  then,  how  poor  and  little  worth 
Are  all  those  glittering  toys  of  earth 

That  lure  us  here  ! 

Dreams  of  a  sleep  that  death  must  break : 
Alas  !  before  it  bids  us  wake, 

Ye  disappear ! 
Edinburgh  Review. 

NOTE.  —  Compare  with  Longfellow's  translation  of  "  Coplas  de  Manrique" 
by  Don  Jorge  Manrique. 


THROUGH   LIFE. 

WE  slight  the  gifts  that  every  season  bears, 
And  let  them  fall  unheeded  from  our  grasp, 
In  our  great  eagerness  to  reach  and  clasp 

The  promised  treasure  of  the  coming  years  ; 

Or  else  we  mourn  some  great  good  passed  away, 
And,  in  the  shadow  of  our  grief  shut  in, 
Refuse  the  lesser  good  we  yet  might  win, 

The  offered  peace  and  gladness  of  to-day. 

So  through  the  chambers  of  our  life  we  pass, 
And  leave  them  one  by  one  and  never  stay, 

Not  knowing  how  much  pleasantness  there  was 

In  each,  until  the  closing  of  the  door 

Has  sounded  through  the  house  and  died  away, 

And  in  our  hearts  we  sigh,  "  Forevermore ! " 
Chambers' s  Journal. 


A  CHARACTER  AND   A  QUESTION. 

« 
A  DUBIOUS,  strange,  uncomprehended  life, 

A  roll  of  riddles  with  no  answer  found ; 

A  sea-like  soul  which  plummet  cannot  sound, 
Torn  with  belligerent  winds  at  mutual  strife. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATHS  MYSTERY.     281 

The  god  in  him  hath  taken  unto  wife 
A  daughter  of  the  pit,  and,  strongly  bound 
In  coils  of  snake-like  hair  about  him  wound, 

Dies,  straining  hard  to  raise  the  severing  knife. 

For  such  a  sunken  soul,  what  room  in  heaven  ? 
For  such  a  soaring  soul,  what  place  in  hell  ? 
Can  those  desires  be  damned,  those  doings  shriven, 
Or  in  some  lone  mid-region  must  he  dwell 
Forever  ?     Lo  !  God  sitteth  with  the  seven 
Stars  in  his  hand,  and  shall  not  he  judge  well  ? 
The  Spectator. 


WITH   THE  TIDE.  . 

WAVE  by  wave  o'er  the  sandy  bar, 

Up  to  the  coast  lights,  glimmering  wan, 
Out  of  the  darkness  deep  and  far, 

Slowly  the  tide  came  creeping  on. 
Through  the  clamor  of  billowy  strife 

Another  voice  went  wailing  thin  ; 
The  first  faint  cry  of  a  new-born  life 

Broke  on  the  night  —  and  the  tide  was  in. 

Wave  by  wave  o'er  the  sandy  bar, 

Back  again  from  the  sleeping  townk 
Back  to  the  darkness  deep  and  far, 

Slowly  the  tide  went  dropping  down. 
Silence  lay  on  the  chamber  of  death ; 

Silence  lay  on  the  land  about ; 
The  last  low  flutter  of  weary  breath 

Fell  on  the  night  —  and  the  tide  was  out. 


TWO   PICTURES. 

SOMEBODY'S  heart  is  gay, 

And  somebody's  heart  is  sad  ; 
For  lights  shine  out  across  the  way, 

And  a  door  with  crape  is  clad. 
Sadness  and  gladness  alike 

Are  dwelling  side  by  side. 
Perhaps  the  death  of  an  early  one, 

And  the  crowning  of  a  bride. 

Bright  eyes  are  filled  with  mirth, 

Pale  faces  bend  in  prayer, 
And  hearts  beside  the  household  hearth 

Are  crushed  by  stout  despair  ; 


282  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Ah,  sorrow  and  hope  and  joy 
Are  parted  by  thinnest  walls ; 

But  on  the  hearts  of  the  thoughtless  ones 
No  shadow  of  sorrow  falls  ! 

No  thoughts  of  the  funeral  train 

Come  to  the  festive  throng; 
No  hopes  that  the  past  will  come  again 

To  the  anguished  hearts  belong ; 
The  future  's  a  sunny  sea 

To  the  lovers  of  joy  and  mirth ; 
But  the  past  alone  to  those  who  weep 

For  the  sundered  ties  of  earth. 

Somebody's  heart  is  gay, 

And  somebody's  heart  is  sad ; 
For  the  lights  are  bright  across  the  way, 

And  a  door  with  crape  is  clad. 
Sadness  and  gladness  alike 

Confront  us  on  every  side  ; 
A  wealth  of  smiles  and  a  flood  of  tears, 

With  hope  and  sorrow  allied  I 


WHY  IS  IT  SO? 

SOME  find  work  where  some  find  rest, 
And  so  the  weary  world  goes  on ; 

I  sometimes  wonder  which  is  best : 
The  answer  comes  when  life  is  gone. 

Some  eyes  sleep  where  some  eyes  wake, 
And  so  the  dreary  night  hours  go ; 

Some  hearts  beat  where  some  hearts  break : 
I  often  wonder  why  't  is  so. 

Some  wills  faint  where  some  wills  fight  — 
Some  love  the  tent  and  some  the  field ; 

I  often  wonder  who  are  right, 
The  ones  who  strive  or  the  ones  who  yield. 

Some  hands  fold  where  other  hands 

Are  lifted  bravely  in  the  strife ; 
And  so  through  ages  and  through  lands 

Move  on  the  two  extremes  of  life. 

Some  feet  halt  where  some  feet  tread 
In  tireless  march  a  thorny  way  ; 

Some  struggle  on  where  some  have  fled ; 
Some  seek  where  others  shun  the  fray. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     283 

Some  swords  rust  where  others  clash, 
Some  fall  back  where  others  move  on, 

Some  flags  furl  where  others  flash, 
Until  the  battle  has  been  won. 

Some  sleep  on  while  others  keep 

The  vigils  of  the  true  and  brave ; 
They  will  not  rest  till  roses  creep 

Around  their  names  above  a  grave. 


WHAT   HAVE   I  DONE? 

I  LAY  my  finger  on  Time's  wrist  to  score 
The  forward-surging  moments  as  they  roll ; 

Each  pulse  seems  quicker  than  the  one  before  ; 
And  lo  !  my  days  pile  up  against  my  soul 

As  clouds  pile  up  against  the  golden  sun ; 

Alas !     What  have  I  done  ?    What  have  I  done  ? 

I  neve'  'teep  the  rosy  hours  in  sleep, 
Or  hiae  my  soul,  as  in  a  gloomy  crypt ; 

No  idle  hands  into  my  bosom  creep ; 
And  yet,  as  water-drops  from  house-eaves  drip, 

So,  viewless,  melt  my  days,  and  from  me  run ; 

Alas !     What  have  I  done  ?     What  have  I  done  r 

I  have  not  missed  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers, 
Or  scorned  the  music  of  the  flowing  rills, 

Whose  numerous  liquid  tongues  sing  to  the  hours ; 
Yet  rise  my  days  behind  me,  like  the  hills, 

Unstarred  by  light  of  mighty  triumphs  won ; 

Alas  !     What  have  I  done  ?    What  have  I  done  ? 

Be  still,  my  soul ;  restrain  thy  lips  from  woe  ! 

Cease  thy  lament !  for  life  is  but  the  flower  ; 
The  fruit  comes  after  death ;  how  canst  thou  know 

The  roundness  of  its  form,  its  depth  of  power  ? 
Death  is  life's  morning.     When  thy  work  's  begun, 
Then  ask  thyself—  What  yet  is  to  be  done  ? 

LILLIAN  BLANCHE  FEARING, 


LIFE. 

(A  LITERARY  CURIOSITY.) 

WHY  all  this  toil  for  triumphs  of  an  hour  ?  [  Young. 

Life  's  a  short  summer  —  man  is  but  a  flower.  [Dr.  Johnson. 

By  turns  we  catch  the  fatal  breath  and  die  ;  [Pope. 

The  cradle  and  the  tomb,  alas  !  how  nigh.  [Prior. 


284  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

To  be  better  far  than  not  to  be,  [Sewell. 

Though  all  man's  life  may  seem  a  tragedy ;  [Spencer. 

But  light  cares  speak  when  mighty  griefs  are  dumb  —      [Daniel. 
The  bottom  is  but  shallow  whence  they  come. 

[Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

Thy  fate  is  the  common  fate  of  all ;  [Longfellow. 

Unmingled  joys  here  no  man  befall ;  [Southwell. 

Nature  to  each  allots  his  proper  sphere,  [Congreve. 

Fortune  makes  folly  her  peculiar  care.  [Churchill. 

Custom  does  often  reason  overrule,  [Rochester. 

And  throw  a  cruel  sunshine  on  a  fool.  [Armstrong. 

Live  well ;  how  long  or  short  permit  to  Heaven.  [Milton. 

They  who  forgive  most  shall  be  most  forgiven.  [Bailey. 

Sin  may  be  clasped  so  close  we  cannot  see  its  face —    [French. 
Vile  intercourse  where  virtue  has  no  place  ;  [Somerville. 

Then  keep  each  passion  down,  however  dear,  [Thompson. 

Thou  pendulum  betwixt  a  smile  and  tear.  [Byron. 

Her  sensual  snares  let  faithless  pleasure  lay,  [Smollett. 

With  craft  and  skill  to  ruin  and  betray  :  [Crabbe. 

Soar  not  too  high  to  fall,  but  stoop  to  rise  ;  \Massinger. 

We  masters  grow  of  all  that  we  despise.  [Crowley. 

Oh,  then,  renounce  that  impious  self-esteem,  [Beattie. 

Riches  have  wings  and  grandeur  is  a  dream.  [Cowper. 

Think  not  ambition  wise  because  't  is  brave, 

[Sir  William  Davenant. 

The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave ;  [Gray. 

What  is  ambition  ?    T  is  a  glorious  cheat,  [  Willis. 

Only  destructive  to  the  brave  and  great.  [Addison. 

What 's  all  the  gaudy  glitter  of  a  crown  ?  [Dry den. 

The  way  to  bliss  lies  not  on  beds  of  down.          [Francis  Quarles. 
How  long  we  live,  not  years,  but  actions  tell ;  [  Watkins. 

That  man  lives  twice  who  lives  the  first  life  well.          [Herrick. 
Make,  then,  while  yet  ye  may,  your  God  your  friend, 

[  William  Mason. 

Whom  Christians  worship,  yet  not  comprehend.  [HilL 

The  trust  that 's  given  guard,  and  to  yourself  be  just,      [Dana. 
For  live  we  how  we  may,  yet  die  we  must.  [Shakspeare. 

MRS.  H.  A.  DEMING. 

NOTE.  —  Accompanying  this  is  a  statement  that  a  year  was  occupied  in 
searching  for  and  fitting  the  lines  in  this  remarkable  mosaic  from  English 
and  American  poets. 


SHADOWS. 

SOMETIMES  I  smile,  sometimes  I  sigh, 

But  mostly  sorrow  fills  my  heart ; 
The  present  and  the  future  lie, 

Like  two  grim  shadows,  just  apart. 
I  change  as  often  as  the  clouds, 

That  on  a  gusty  morning  run 
In  cold  and  sad  and  solemn  crowds 

To  bar  and  blind  the  faithful  sun. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATHS  MYSTERY.      285 

Why  come  these  thoughts  in  baleful  forms 

To  darken  life's  too  fleeting  hours, 
E'en  as  the  summer's  sullen  storms 

That  sob  their  gloom  away  in  showers  ? 
I  cannot  smile  as  others  smile, 

Nor  yet  be  merry  half  so  long ; 
For  sorrow  fills  me  even  while 

I  yearn  to  sing  a  joyous  song. 

The  knowledge  that  my  youth  is  gone 

Broods  ever  darkly  on  the  mind ; 
I  look,  as  some  poor  hapless  one, 

For  what  he  needs  but  cannot  find. 
I  long  in  vain  for  peace  or  rest, 

And  mourn  each  lost  and  faded  scene, 
Like  some  poor  bird  that  finds  its  nest 

All  vacant  where  its  young  had  been. 

Pain  waits  on  pleasure  evermore, 

To  blanch  its  blush,  to  dim  its  light ; 
To  mock  it  when  its  dreams  are  o'er, 

When  all  its  charms  have  taken  flight. 
And  thus  it  is  we  cannot  sing, 

Or  long  be  joyous,  when  we  're  old  ; 
When  summer  hours  have  taken  wing, 

The  flowers  must  perish  in  the  cold  1 


AT  THE  LOOM. 

SHE  stood  at  the  clumsy  loom, 

And  wove  with  a  careless  song ; 
For  her  task  would  soon  be  done, 

And  the  day  was  bright  and  long  ; 
So  she  worked  at  her  pattern,  roses  red 
And  trailing  vines  ;  but  she  thought  instead 
Where  the  sweetbrier  grew  in  the  distant  wood, 
And  of  pleasant  shade  where  the  old  oak  stood. 

She  stood  at  the  stately  loom, 

And  wove  with  a  girlish  grace ; 
And  her  eyes  grew  tender  and  sweet 

As  she  wrought  in  the  web  apace. 
Strong  men  mounted  with  lance  and  spear, 
Then  a  chase  with  hounds  and  a  frightened  deer ; 
But  she  thought  the  while  of  her  lover  knight, 
And  whispered  softly,  "  He  comes  to-night." 

She  stood  at  the  tireless  loom, 

And  wove  with  a  steady  hand ; 
And  a  watchful  eye  on  the  twain 

Without,  at  play  in  the  sand. 


286  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Stripes  of  warm,  dark  colors  she  wrought, 
And  every  thread  with  a  hope  was  fraught ; 
Some  day,  she  thought,  my  lad  will  be  great, 
And  my  oonnie  lass  a  nobleman's  mate. 

She  stood  at  the  dusty  loom, 

Bent,  and  wrinkled,  and  old, 
But  the  shuttle  she  feebly  plied 

Dropped  from  her  nerveless  hold. 
"  Ah,  well !  whom  have  I  to  work  for  now  ?  " 
The  old  dame  said,  with  shaded  brow. 
"  But  I  've  seen  the  time  when  I  worked  with  the  best ; " 
And  she  dropped  her  chin  on  her  wrinkled  breast. 

At  a  silent,  invisible  loom, 

Always,  morning  and  night, 
With  tender  care  wrought  one 

Who  was  hidden  from  human  sight. 
Tangled  and  broken  threads  wrought  he, 
And  his  finished  web  was  fair  to  see ; 
For  he  gathered  the  hopes  that  were  broken  in  twain, 
And  wrought  them  into  his  web  again. 
Public  Opinion. 


THIS  mortal  body  that  I  wear 

Will  soon  return  to  whence  it  came, 
Resolved  into  the  earth  and  air 

By  foul  decay  or  purer  flame. 
The  elements  again  will  take 

The  atoms  that  they  have  bestowed, 
And  give  them  in  their  turn  to  make 

Some  other  thinking  soul's  abode. 

To  die  —  is  it  another  birth  ? 

Or  is  it  but  an  endless  swoon  ? 
Will  we  still  roam  the  plains  of  earth, 

Or  climb  the  mountains  of  the  moon? 
Will  memory  still  retain  its  hold 

Upon  the  sad  and  sunny  past, 
Or  in  the  eternal  future's  mould 

Are  all  the  precious  metals  cast  ? 

Will  love  and  truth  and  honor  live, 

And  hate  and  wrong  and  falsehood  die? 

Will  only  grace  and  beauty  give 
Their  glory  to  the  by  and  by  ? 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATHS  MYSTERY.     287 

Or  will  the  fruits  and  flowers  and  weeds 
Still  rankly  flourish  side  by  side,  — 

The  laurels  of  heroic  deeds 

Twined  with  the  poisonous  vine  of  pride  ? 

The  child  I  danced  upon  my  knee, 

The  sunlit  hair  and  heaven-hued  eyes, 
Whose  laughter  filled  my  heart  with  glee, 

My  sweetest  joy,  my  dearest  prize,  — 
The  years  of  grief  have  reached  a  score, 

Yet  still  her  soft  embrace  I  miss,  — 
Will  she  upon  the  other  shore 

Welcome  me  with  a  spirit-kiss  ? 

My  boy  grown  near  to  man's  estate, 

My  wife  whose  smile  had  blest  the  years, 
Victims  of  a  relentless  fate  — : 

I  yielded  to  the  grave  with  tears. 
And  like  a  seared  and  blasted  tree, 

Alone  I  stand  where  tempests  lower ; 
The  joys  of  earth  have  fled  from  me, 

But  yet  I  fear  the  parting  hour. 

Great  Lord  of  Life,  Creative  Power, 

If  thou  canst  hear  thy  creatures'  call, 
Before  that  dark  impending  hour 

Disclose  to  me  the  mighty  All. 
Unlock  the  volume  sealed  so  long, 

The  mystery  of  death  and  pain, 
The  cause  and  final  doom  of  wrong, 

That  all  the  race  have  sought  in  vain. 

Yet  stay ;  I  would  not  read  the  book ; 

Too  awful  might  its  secret  be 
For  mortal  eyes  to  rashly  look 

Upon  the  dreadful  mystery. 
Let  me  grope  on  through  life's  dark  maze, 

And  blindly  bow  before  thy  will, 
That  o'er  my  few  remaining  days 

The  light  of  hope  may  linger  still. 

New  York  Commercial  Advertiser.  F.  A.  LE  H 


A  QUERY. 

OH  the  wonder  of  our  life, 
Pain  and  pleasure,  rest  and  strife, 
Mystery  of  mysteries, 
Set  twixt  two  eternities ! 


238  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Lo,  the  moments  come  and  go, 
E'en  as  sparks,  and  vanish  so ; 
Flash  from  darkness  into  light, 
Quick  as  thought  are  quenched  in  night. 

With  an  import  grand  and  strange 
Are  they  fraught  in  ceaseless  change 
As  they  post  away ;  each  one 
Stands  eternally  alone. 

The  scene  more  fair  than  words  can  say, 
I  gaze  upon  and  go  my  way ; 
I  turn,  another  glance  to  claim  — 
Something  is  changed,  't  is  not  the  same. 

The  purple  flush  on  yonder  fell, 
The  tinkle  of  that  cattle-bell, 
Came,  and  have  never  come  before, 
Go,  and  are  gone  forevermore. 

Our  life  is  held  as  with  a  vice, 
We  cannot  do  the  same  thing  twice ; 
Once  we  may,  but  not  again ; 
Only  memories  remain. 

What  if  memories  vanish  too, 
And  the  past  be  lost  to  view ; 
Is  it  all  for  nought  that  I 
Heard  and  saw  and  hurried  by  ? 

Where  are  childhood's  merry  hours, 
Bright  with  sunshine,  crossed  with  showers? 
Are  they  dead,  and  can  they  never 
Come  again  to  life  forever  ? 

No  —  't  is  false,  I  surely  trow ; 
Though  awhile  they  vanish  now  ; 
Every  passion,  deed,  and  thought 
Was  not  born  to  come  to  nought ! 

Will  the  past  then  come  again, 
Rest  and  pleasure,  strife  and  pain, 
All  the  heaven  and  all  the  hell  ? 
Ah,  we  know  not :  God  can  tell. 
Good  Words. 


LIFE  AND   DEATH. 

WHAT  is  the  life  of  man  ?    A  passing  shade 
Upon  the  changeful  mirror  of  old  Time ; 

A  sear  leaf,  long  ere  autumn  comes  decayed ; 
A  plant  or  tree  that  scantly  reaches  prime ; 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     289 

A  dew-drop  of  the  morning  gone  ere  noon ; 

A  meteor  expiring  in  its  fall ; 
A  blade  of  grass  that  springs  to  wither  soon ; 

A  dying  taper  on  a  darksome  pall ; 
The  foam  upon  the  torrent's  whirling  wave ; 

A  bird  that  flutters  on  a  drooping  wing ; 
A  shadowy  spectre  o'er  an  open  grave ; 

A  morning-glory's  moments  in  the  spring ; 
A  breaking  bubble  on  a  rushing  stream ; 
A  sunset  after  storm,  an  erring  angel's  dream. 

What  is  this  death  we  fear  ?    The  peaceful  close 

Of  stormy  life  —  of  reckless  passion's  sway ; 
The  veil  that  mantles  all  our  cares  and  woes ; 

The  heavenly  ending  of  an  earthly  day ; 
The  crown  of  time  well  spent ;  the  portal  fair 

Which  opes  the  way  to  never-ending  joy ; 
It  sets  the  captive  spirit  free  as  air, 

From  all  the  fetters  which  on  earth  annoy. 
What  is  this  death  ?    The  sleep  the  pilgrim  takes 

After  much  weary  travail  he  has  known, 
And  whence  with  renovated  power  he  wakes, 

His  soul  more  mighty  for  its  slumber  grown; 
The  glorious  conquest  over  human  ill ; 
A  spirit's  joy  which  death  can  never  kill. 


LIVING. 

WE  can  only  live  once  ;  and  death's  terrors 

With  life's  bowers  and  roses  entwine, 
And  our  lives  would  be  darkened  by  errors 

Did  we  even,  like  cats,  possess  nine  ! 
They  would  be,  perhaps,  all  of  them  wasted, 

And  recklessly  squandered  away, 
And  not  half  of  the  joys  would  be  tasted 

That  one  life  can  embrace  in  a  day. 

Let  the  lives  that  we  live  be  worth  living ; 

Let  the  days  that  we  spend  be  well  spent,* 
Let  us  save  for  the  pleasure  of  giving, 

And  not  borrow  at  fifty  per  cent ; 
Let  us  never  cease  loving  and  learning, 

And  use  life  for  its  noblest  of  ends ; 
Then  when  dust  to  its  dust  is  returning, 

We  shall  live  in  the  hearts  of  our  friends. 
London  Fun. 

19 


290  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


MIDGES  IN  THE   SUNSHINE. 

IF  I  could  see  with  a  midge's  eye, 

Or  think  with  a  midge's  brain, 
I  wonder  what  I  'd  say  of  the  world, 

With  all  its  joy  and  pain. 
Would  my  seven  brief  hours  of  mortal  life 

Seem  long  as  seventy  years, 
As  I  danced  in  the  flickering  sunshine 

Amid  my  tiny  peers  ? 
Should  I  feel  the  slightest  hope  or  care 

For  the  midges  yet  to  be ; 
Or  think  I  died  before  my  time, 

If  I  died  at  half-past  three 
Instead  of  living  till  set  of  sun 

On  the  breath  of  the  summer  wind ; 
Or  deem  that  the  world  was  made  for  me 

And  all  my  little  kind  ? 
Perhaps  if  I  did  I  'd  know  as  much 

Of  Nature's  mighty  plan, 
And  what  it  meant  for  good  or  ill, 

As  that  larger  midge,  a  man  1 


WHO  GATHER   GOLD. 

THEY  soon  grow  old  who  grope  for  gold 
In  marts  where  all  is  bought  and  sold  : 
Who  live  for  self  and  on  some  shelf 
In  darkened  vaults  hoard  up  their  pelf ; 
Cankered  and  crusted  orer  with  mould  — 
For  them  their  youth  itself  is  old. 

They  ne'er  grow  old  who  gather  gold 
Where  spring  awakes  and  flowers  unfold  ; 
Where  suns  arise  in  joyous  skies, 
And  fill  the  soul  within  their  eyes. 
For  them  the  immortal  bards  have  sung ; 
For  them  old  age  itself  is  young. 
Scribner's  Magazine.  ANDREW  B.  SAXTON. 


FLOTSAM  AND  JETSAM. 

THE  sea  crashed  over  the  grim  gray  rocks, 

It  thundered  beneath  the  height, 

It  swept  by  reef  and  sandy  dune, 

It  glittered  beneath  the  harvest  moon 

That  bathed  it  in  yellow  light. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.      291 

Shell  and  seaweed  and  sparkling  stone 
It  flung  on  the  golden  sand. 
Strange  relics  torn  from  its  deepest  caves  — 
Sad  trophies  of  wild  victorious  waves  — 
It  scattered  upon  the  strand. 

Spars  that  had  looked  so  strong  and  true 
When  the  gallant  ship  was  launched, 
Shattered  and  broken,  flung  to  the  shore, 
While  the  tide  in  its  deep,  triumphant  roar, 
Rang  the  dirge  for  old  wounds  long  stanched. 

Pretty  trifles  that  love  had  brought 

From  many  a  foreign  clime, 

Snatched  by  the  storm  from  the  clinging  clasp 

Of  hands  that  the  lonely  will  never  grasp, 

While  the  world  yet  counteth  time. 

Back,  back  to  its  depths  went  the  ebbing  tide, 
Leaving  its  stores  to  rest 
Unsought  and  unseen  in  the  silent  bay, 
To  be  gathered  again,  ere  close  of  day, 
To  the  ocean's  mighty  breast. 

Kinder  than  man  art  thou,  O  sea  ; 
Frankly  we  give  our  best,  — 
Truth,  and  hope,  and  love,  and  faith, 
Devotion  that  challenges  time  and  death,  — 
Its  sterling  worth  to  test. 

We  fling  them  down  at  our  darling's  feet, 
Indifference  leaves  them  there  ; 
The  careless  footstep  turns  aside, 
Weariness,  changefulness,  scorn,  or  pride, 
Brings  little  of  thought  or  care. 

No  tide  of  human  feeling  turns  ; 
Once  ebbed,  love  never  flows  ; 
The  pitiful  wreckage  of  time  and  strife, 
The  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  human  life, 
No  saving  reflux  knows. 
All  the  Year  Round. 


BY  THE  SEA. 

SLOWLY,  steadily,  under  the  moon, 
Swings  the  tide  in  its  old-time  way ; 

Never  too  late  and  never  too  soon, 

And  the  evening  and  morning  make  up  the  day. 


292  THE  HUMBLER  POETS-. 

Slowly,  steadily,  over  the  sands, 

And  over  the  rocks  they  fall  and  flow ; 

And  this  wave  has  touched  a  dead  man's  hands, 
And  that  one  has  seen  a  face  we  know. 

They  have  borne  the  good  ship  on  her  way, 
Or  buried  her  deep  from  love  and  light ; 

And  yet,  as  they  sink  at  our  feet  to-day, 

Ah,  who  shall  interpret  their  message  aright  ? 

For  their  separate  voices  of  grief  and  cheer 
Are  blended  at  last  in  one  solemn  tone  ; 

And  only  this  song  of  the  waves  I  hear,  — 
"  Forever  and  ever  His  will  be  done  1 " 

Slowly,  steadily,  to  and  fro, 

Swings  our  life  in  its  weary  way ; 

Now  at  its  ebb  and  now  at  its  flow, 

And  the  evening  and  morning  make  up  the  day. 

Sorrow  and  happiness,  peace  and  strife, 
Fear  and  rejoicing,  its  moments  know; 

How  from  the  discords  of  such  a  life 
Can  the  clear  music  of  heaven  flow  ? 

Yet  to  the  ear  of  God  it  swells, 
And  to  the  blessed  round  the  throne, 

Sweeter  than  chime  of  silver  bells,  — 
"  Forever  and  ever  His  will  be  done  I w 


ELIAB  ELIEZER. 

THE  Reverend  Eliab  Eliezer 

Sat  toasting  his  shins  by  the  grate  ; 

His  ponderous  brain  busy  musing 
On  man's  most  pitiable  state. 

Abroad  the  storm-king  was  raging, 

And  the  snow  was  fast  whitening  the  ground ; 
But  its  fury  disturbed  not  Eliab, 

In  his  reverie  so  deep  and  profound. 

For  he  thought  how  wicked  and  sinful 

Was  poor  fallen  man  at  the  best; 
And  even  Eliab  Eliezer 

Was  almost  as  bad  as  the  rest ! 

And  he  piously  groaned  in  the  spirit, 
At  the  flesh  which  so  leads  us  astray ; 

"  There  's  nothing  that 's  good,"  saith  Eliab, 
"  In  these  weak,  worthless  vessels  of  clay. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.      293 

"  Yea ;  man  is  a  poor,  sinful  creature 

Even  when  he  tries  to  do  right ; 
But  when  he  does  not,  and  to  ruin 

Willing  rushes,  how  dreadful  the  sight  I 

"  Now,  there  's  swearing  Meg,  at  the  corner, 

Her  case  shows  plainly,  I  think, 
How  wicked  our  natural  hearts  are  — 

How  much  lower  than  brutes  we  can  sink. 


"  I  will  preach  to  my  people  a  sermon, 

And  take  old  Meg  for  my  text ; 
And  show  them  how  narrow  the  safe  road 

That  leads  from  this  world  to  the  next." 

So  he  sat  himself  down  at  the  table, 

And  began  with  "  Original  Sin  ;  " 
And  by  and  by  Meg  and  her  swearing 

Were  deftly  dovetailed  therein. 

With  "thirdly"  and  "fourthly"  he  finished; 

Then  turned  to  his  grate  nice  and  warm, 
When  he  thought  of  Widow  Mory,  and  wondered 

If  she  was  prepared  for  the  storm. 

"  I  '11  call  around  soon  in  the  morning, 

And  be  sure  that  all  is  quite  right." 
He  did  ;  and  found  food  in  abundance, 

And  the  grate  with  a  fire  glowing  bright. 

And  the  widow,  with  joy  fairly  weeping, 
Told  how  she  was  caught  by  the  storm ; 

Not  a  morsel  of  food  for  her  children  — 
Not  a  coal  her  poor  hovel  to  warm ! 

And  that  they  would  surely  have  perished,  — 

Too  cold  to  go  out  and  beg,  — 
When  pitying  Heaven  sent  succor 

By  such  a  strange  angel  —  Old  Meg ! 

Then  a  light  slowly  dawned  on  Eliab  — 
I  can't  say  what  conclusion  he  reached ; 

But  I  know,  stowed  away  'mong  his  sermons, 
Lies  one  that  never  was  preached ! 

JAMES  ROANN  REED. 


294  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


JUDGE   NOT. 

How  do  we  know  what  hearts  have  vilest  sin  ? 

How  do  we  know  ? 
Many,  like  sepulchres,  are  foul  within, 

Whose  outward  garb  is  spotless  as  the  snow, 
And  many  may  be  pure  we  think  not  so. 
How  near  to  God  the  souls  of  such  have  been, 
What  mercy  secret  penitence  may  win  — 
How  do  we  know  ? 

How  can  we  tell  who  sinned  more  than  we  ? 

How  can  we  tell  ? 

We  think  our  brother  walked  guiltily, 
Judging  him  in  self-righteousness.     Ah,  well ! 
Perhaps  had  we  been  driven  through  the  hell 
Of  his  untold  temptations,  we  might  be 
Less  upright  in  our  daily  walk  than  he  — 
How  can  we  tell  ? 

Dare  we  condemn  the  ills  that  others  do  ? 

Dare  we  condemn  ? 

Their  strength  is  small,  their  trials  not  a  few, 
The  tide  of  wrong  is  difficult  to  stem. 
And  if  to  us  more  clearly  than  to  them 
Is  given  knowledge  of  the  great  and  true, 
More  do  they  need  our  help  and  pity  too  — 
Dare  we  condemn  ? 

God  help  us  all,  and  lead  us  day  by  day,  — 

God  help  us  all ! 

We  cannot  walk  alone  the  perfect  way. 
Evil  allures  us,  tempts  us,  and  we  fall. 
We  are  but  human,  and  our  power  is  small ; 
Not  one  of  us  may  boast,  and  not  a  day 
Rolls  o'er  our  heads  but  each  hath  need  to  say, 
God  bless  us  all  1 


THE  CHIMES  OF  OLD  ENGLAND. 

THE  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Of  England  green  and  old, 
That  out  from  fane  and  ivied  tower 

A  thousand  years  have  tolled : 
How  glorious  sounds  their  music, 

As  breaks  the  hallowed  day, 
And  calleth  with  a  seraph's  voice 

A  nation  up  to  pray] 


LIFE,  RELIGION-,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     295 

Those  chimes  that  tell  a  thousand  tales, 

Sweet  tales  of  olden  time, 
And  ring  a  thousand  memories 

At  vesper  and  at  prime  I 
At  bridal  and  at  burial, 

For  cottager  and  king, 
Those  chimes,  those  glorious  Christian  chimes, 

How  blessedly  they  ring ! 

Those  chimes,  those  chimes  of  Motherland, 

Upon  a  Christmas  morn, 
Outbreaking  as  the  angels, 

For  a  Redeemer  born  I 
How  merrily  they  call  afar, 

To  cot  and  baron's  hall, 
With  holly  decked  and  mistletoe, 

To  keep  the  festival ! 

Those  chimes  of  England,  how  they  peal 

From  tower  and  Gothic  piles, 
Where  hymn  and  swelling  anthem  fill 

The  dim  cathedral  aisles ; 
Where  windows  bathe  the  holy  light 

On  priestly  heads  that  falls, 
And  stain  the  florid  tracery 

Of  banner-lighted  walls  1 

And  then,  those  Easter  bells  in  spring, 

Those  glorious  Easter  chimes, 
How  loyally  they  hail  thee  round, 

Old  Queen  of  holy  times ! 
From  hill  to  hill,  like  sentinels, 

Responsively  they  cry, 
And  sing  the  rising  of  the  Lord 

From  vale  to  mountain  high. 

I  love  ye,  chimes  of  Motherland, 

With  all  this  soul  of  mine, 
And  bless  the  Lord  that  I  am  sprung 

Of  good  old  English  line: 
And  like  a  son  I  sing  the  lay 

That  England's  glory  tells  ; 
For  she  is  lovely  to  the  Lord, 

For  you,  ye  Christian  bells. 

And,  heir  of  her  ancestral  fame, 

Though  far  away  my  birth, 
Thee,  too,  I  love,  my  Forest  home, 

The  joy  of  all  the  earth  ; 
For  thine  thy  mother's  voice  shall  be, 

And  here,  where  God  is  King, 
With  English  chimes,  from  Christian  spires, 

The  wilderness  shall  ring. 

BISHOP  COXE. 


296  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


THE   SABBATH   BELLS. 

THE  old  man  sits  in  his  easy-chair, 

And  his  ear  has  caught  the  ringing 
Of  many  a  church-bell  far  and  near, 

Their  own  sweet  music  singing. 
And  his  head  sinks  low  on  the  aged  breast, 

While  his  thoughts  far  back  are  reaching 
To  the  Sabbath  morns  of  his  boyish  days 

And  a  mother's  sacred  teaching. 

A  few  years  later,  and  lo !  the  bells 

A  merrier  strain  were  pealing, 
And  heavenward  bore  the  marriage  vows 

Which  his  manhood's  joys  were  sealing. 
But  the  old  man's  eyes  are  dimming  now, 

As  memory  holds  before  him 
The  sad,  sad  picture  of  later  years, 

When  the  tide  of  grief  rolled  o'er  him ; 

When  the  bells  were  tolling  for  loved  ones  gone,  - 

For  the  wife,  the  sons  and  daughters, 
Who,  one  by  one,  from  his  home  went  out, 

And  down  into  death's  dark  waters. 
But  the  aged  heart  has  still  one  joy 

Which  his  old  life  daily  blesses, 
And  his  eyes  grow  bright  and  his  pulses  warm 

'Neath  a  grandchild^  sweet  caresses. 

But  the  old  man  wakes  from  his  reverie, 

And  his  dear  old  face  is  smiling, 
While  the  child  with  her  serious  eyes  reads  on, 

The  Sabbath  hours  beguiling. 
Ah  !  bells,  once  more  ye  will  ring  for  him, 

When  the  heavenly  hand  shall  sever 
The  cord  of  life,  and  his  freed  soul  flies 

To  dwell  with  his  own  forever. 


NO   SECT  IN   HEAVEN. 

TALKING  of  sects  till  late  one  eve, 
Of  the  various  doctrines  the  saints  believe, 
That  night  I  stood  in  a  troubled  dream 
By  the  side  of  a  darkly  flowing  stream  ; 

And  a  Churchman  down  to  the  river  came, 
When  I  heard  a  strange  voice  call  his  name ; 
"  Good  father,  stop ;  when  you  cross  this  tide, 
You  must  leave  your  robes  on  the  other  side." 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATHS  MYSTERY.     297 

But  the  aged  father  did  not  mind, 
And  his  long  gown  floated  out  behind, 
As  down  to  the  stream  his  way  he  took, 
His  pale  hands  clasping  a  gilt-edged  book. 

"  I  am  bound  for  heaven,  and  when  I  'm  there 
I  shall  want  my  Book  of  Common  Prayer  ; 
And  though  I  put  on  a  starry  crown, 
I  should  feel  quite  lost  without  my  gown." 

Then  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  shining  track, 
But  his  gown  was  heavy  and  held  him  back ; 
And  the  poor  old  father  tried  in  vain 
A  single  step  in  the  flood  to  gain. 

I  saw  him  again  on  the  other  side, 
But  his  silk  gown  floated  on  the  tide, 
And  no  one  asked,  in  that  blissful  spot, 
Whether  he  belonged  to  "  The  Church  "  or  not. 

Then  down  to  the  river  a  Quaker  strayed ; 
His  dress  of  a  sombre  hue  was  made. 
"  My  coat  and  hat  must  all  be  of  gray, 
I  cannot  go  any  other  way." 

Then  he  buttoned  his  coat  straight  up  to  his  chin, 
And  slowly,  solemnly  waded  in  ; 
And  his  broad-brimmed  hat  he  pulled  down  tight 
Over  his  forehead  so  cold  and  white. 

But  a  strong  wind  carried  away  his  hat ; 
A  moment  he  silently  sighed  over  that, 
And  then,  as  he  gazed  to  the  farther  shore, 
His  coat  slipped  off  and  was  seen  no  more. 

As  he  entered  heaven  his  suit  of  gray 
"Went  quietly  sailing  away,  away  ; 
And  none  of  the  angels  questioned  him 
About  the  width  of  his  beaver's  brim. 

Next  came  Dr.  Watts  with  a  bundle  of  psalms 

Tied  nicely  up  in  his  aged  arms, 

And  hymns  as  many,  a  very  nice  thing, 

That  the  people  in  heaven,  all  round,  might  sing. 

But  I  thought  that  he  heaved  an  anxious  sigh 
As  he  saw  that  the  river  ran  broad  and  high, 
And  looked  rather  surprised  as,  one  by  one, 
The  psalms  and  the  hymns  in  the  waves  went  down. 

After  him,  with  his  MSS., 

Came  Wesley,  the  pattern  of  godliness  ; 

But  he  cried,  "  Dear  me,  what  shall  I  do, 

The  water  has  soaked  them  through  and  through  ?  " 


298  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  there  on  the  river  far  and  wide 
Away  they  went  down  the  swollen  tide, 
While  the  saint  astonished  passed  through  alone, 
Without  his  manuscript,  up  to  the  throne. 

Then,  gravely  walking,  two  saints  by  name 
Down  to  the  stream  together  came  ; 
But  as  they  stopped  at  the  river's  brink, 
I  saw  one  saint  from  the  other  shrink. 

"  Sprinkled  or  plunged,  may  I  ask  you,  friend, 
How  you  attained  to  life's  great  end  ? " 
"  Thus,  with  a  few  drops  on  my  brow  " — 
"  But  I  Ve  been  dipped,  as  you  '11  see  now, 

"  And  I  really  think  it  will  hardly  do, 
As  I  'm  '  close  communion,'  to  cross  with  you. 
You  're  bound,  I  know,  to  the  realms  of  bliss, 
But  you  must  go  that  way,  and  I  '11  go  this." 

Then  straightway  plunging  with  all  his  might, 
Away  to  the  left,  his  friend  to  the  right, 
Apart  they  went  from  this  world  of  sin, 
But  at  last  together  they  entered  in. 

And  now,  when  the  river  was  rolling  on, 

A  Presbyterian  Church  went  down  ; 

Of  women  there  seemed  an  innumerable  throng, 

But  the  men  I  could  count  as  they  passed  along. 

And  concerning  the  road  they  could  never  agree, 
The  old  or  the  new  way,  which  it  could  be, 
Nor  ever  for  a  moment  paused  to  think 
That  both  would  lead  to  the  river's  brink. 

And  a  constant  murmuring,  long  and  loud, 
Came  ever  up  from  the  moving  crowd  : 
"  You  're  in  the  old  way,  and  I  'm  in  the  new, 
That  is  the  false  and  this  is  the  true." 

Or,  "  I  'm  in  the  old  way,  and  you  're  in  the  new, 
That  is  the  false  and  this  is  the  true." 
But  the  brethren  only  seemed  to  speak ; 
Modest  the  sisters  walked,  and  meek. 

But  if  ever  one  of  them  chanced  to  say 
What  troubles  she  met  with  on  the  way, 
How  she  longed  to  be  on  the  other  side, 
Nor  feared  to  cross  o'er  the  swollen  tide, 

A  voice  arose  from  the  brethren  then  : 
"  Let  no  one  speak  but  the  holy  men  ; 
For  have  ye  not  heard  the  words  of  Paul, 
Oh  !  let  the  women  keep  silence  all  ?  " 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     299 

I  watched  them  long  in  my  curious  dream, 
Till  they  stood  by  the  borders  of  the  stream ; 
Then,  just  as  1  thought,  the  two  ways  met, 
And  all  the  brethren  were  talking  yet, 

And  would  talk  on  till  the  heaving  tide 
Carried  them  over  side  by  side  — 
Side  by  side,  for  the  way  was  one ; 
The  toilsome  journey  of  life  was  done. 

And  priest  and  Quaker  and  all  who  died 
Came  out  alike  on  the  other  side  — 
No  forms  or  crosses  or  books  had  they  ; 
No  gowns  of  silk  or  suits  of  gray  ; 
No  creeds  to  guide  them,  nor  MSS., 
For  all  had  put  on  Christ's  righteousness. 

MRS.  CECELIA  JOCELYN  CLEVELAND. 


THE  MODEL  CHURCH. 


WELL,  wife,  I  Ve  found  the  model  church !  I  worshipped  there 

to-day ! 

It  made  me  think  of  good  old  times  before  my  hairs  were  gray; 
The  meetin'-house  was  fixed  up  more  than  they  were  years  ago, 
But  then  I  felt  when  I  went  in  it  was  n't  but  for  show. 

The  sexton  did  n't  seat  me  away  back  by  the  door ; 
He  knew  that  I  was  old  and  deaf  as  well  as  old  and  poor ; 
He  must  have  been  a  Christian,  for  he  led  me  boldly  through 
The  long  aisle  of  the  crowded  church  to  find  a  pleasant  pew. 

I  wish  you  'd  heard  the  singin* ;  it  had  the  old-time  ring ; 

The  preacher  said  with  trumpet  voice,  "  Let  all  the  people 

sing ! " 

The  tune  was  "  Coronation,"  and  the  music  upward  rolled, 
Till  I  thought  I  heard  the  angels  playing  on  their  harps  of 

gold. 

My  deafness  seemed  to  melt  away  ;  my  spirit  caught  the  fire ; 
I  joined  my  feeble,  trembling  voice  with  that  melodious  choir, 
And  sang  as  in  my  youthful  days,  "  Let  angels  prostrate  fall ; 
Bring  forth  the  royal  diadem  and  crown  him  Lord  of  all." 

I  tell  you,  wife,  it  did  me  good  to  sing  that  hymn  once  more ; 
I  felt  like  some  wrecked  mariner  who  gets  a  glimpse  of  shore ; 
I  almost  wanted  to  lay  down  this  weather-beaten  form, 
And  anchor  in  the  blessed  port,  forever  from  the  storm. 


300  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

The  preachin'  ?    Well,  I  can't  just  tell  all  that  the  preacher 

said; 

I  know  it  was  n't  written,  I  know  it  was  n't  read ; 
He  had  n't  time  to  read  it,  for  the  lightnin'  of  his  eye 
Went  flashing  'long  from  pew  to  pew,  nor  passed  a  sinner  by. 

The  sermon  was  n't  flowery  ;  't  was  simple  gospel  truth ; 
It  fitted  poor  old  men  like  me,  it  fitted  hopeful  youth  ; 
'T  was  full  of  consolation  for  weary  hearts  that  bleed, 
And  bade  us  copy  Him  in  thought  and  word  and  deed. 

The  preacher  made  sin  hideous  in  Gentiles  and  in  Jews ; 
He  shot  the  golden  sentences  down  into  the  finest  pews ; 
And  —  though  I  can't  see  very  well  —  I  saw  the  falling  tear 
That  told  me  hell  was  some  ways  off  and  heaven  very  near. 

How  swift  the  golden  moments  fled  within  that  holy  place  ; 
How  brightly  beamed  the  light  of  heaven  from  every  happy 

face! 
Again  I  longed  for  that  sweet  time  when  friend  shall  meet  with 

friend, 
"  When  congregations  ne'er  break  up  and  Sabbaths  have  no 

end." 

I  hope  to  meet  that  minister  —  that  congregation  too  — 

In  the  dear  home  beyond  the  stars  that  shine  from  heaven's 

blue; 

I  doubt  not  I  '11  remember,  beyond  life's  evening  gray, 
The  happy  hours  of  worship  in  that  model  church  to-day. 

Dear  wife,  the  fight  will  soon  be  fought,  the  victory  be  won  ; 
The  shinin'  goal  is  just  ahead,  the  race  is  nearly  run ; 
O'er  the  river  we  are  nearin'  they  are  throngin'  to  the  shore, 
To  shout  our  safe  arrival  where  the  weary  weep  no  more. 

JOHN  H.  YATES. 


THE   FOOL'S   PRAYER. 

THE  royal  feast  was  done  ;  the  king 
Sought  some  new  sport  to  banish  care, 

And  to  his  jester  cried,  "  Sir  Fool, 

Kneel  now  for  us  and  make  a  prayer !  " 

The  jester  doffed  his  cap  and  bells, 
And  stood  the  mocking  court  before; 

They  could  not  see  the  bitter  smile 
Behind  the  painted  grin  he  wore. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     301 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  bent  his  knee 

Upon  the  monarch's  silken  stool ; 
His  pleading  voice  arose :  "  O  Lord, 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool! 

"No  pity,  Lord,  could  change  the  heart 
From  red  with  wrong  to  white  as  wool ; 

The  rod  must  heal  the  sin  j  but,  Lord, 
Be  "merciful  to  me,  a  fool ! 

"'Tis  by  our  guilt  the  onward  sweep 
Of  truth  and  light,  O  Lord,  we  stay; 

*T  is  by  our  follies  that  so  long 

We  hold  the  earth  from  heaven  away. 

'•  These  clumsy  feet,  still  in  the  mire, 

Go  crushing  blossoms  without  end ; 
These  hard,  well-meaning  hands  we  thrust 

Among  the  heart-strings  of  a  friend. 

"'The  ill-time  truth  that  we  have  kept  — 

We  know  how  sharp  it  pierced  and  stung ! 
v*   The  word  we  had  not  sense  to  say  — 

Who  knows  how  grandly  it  had  rung? 

"  Our  faults  no  tenderness  should  ask, 

The  chastening  stripes  must  cleanse  them  all  ; 

But  for  our  r^ujafiers  -*»oh,  in  shame 
Before  the  eyes  of  Heaven  we  fall. 

"  JE^rth  bears  no  balsam  for  mistakes  ; 

Men  crown  the  knave,  and  scourge  the  tool    - 
That  did  his  will;  but  thou,  O  Lord,  ^>      ,£  ,L» 

Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  1 " 

The  room  was  hushed.     In  silence  rose 
The  king,  and  sought  his  garden  cool, 

And  walked  apart,  and  murmured  low, 
"  Be  merciful  to  me,  a  fool  1 " 

E.  R.  SILL. 


WHAT   IS   HIS   CREED? 

HE  left  a  load  of  anthracite 

In  front  of  a  poor  widow's  door 
When  the  deep  snow,  frozen  and  white, 

Wrapped  street  and  square,  mountain  and  moor. 
That  was  his  deed  1 

He  did  it  well ! 
"What  was  his  creed?" 
I  cannot  tell ! 


302  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Blessed  "  in  his  basket  and  his  store," 

In  sitting  down  and  rising  up ; 
When  more  he  got,  he  gave  the  more  — 
Withholding  not  the  crust  and  cup. 
He  took  the  lead 

In  each  good  task. 
"  What  was  his  creed  ?  " 
I  did  not  ask. 

His  charity  was  like  the  snow  — 

Soft,  white,  and  silent  in  its  fall ; 
Not  like  the  noisy  winds  that  blow 
From  shivering  trees  the  leaves  —  a  pall 
For  flower  and  weed, 

Dropping  below  1 
"  What  was  his  creed  ?" 
The  poor  may  know. 

He  had  great  faith  in  loaves  of  bread 
For  hungry  people,  young  and  old  ; 
And  hope-inspired,  kind  words  he  said 
To  those  he  sheltered  from  the  cold. 
For  we  must  feed 
As  well  as  pray. 
"  What  was  his  creed  ?  " 
I  cannot  say. 

In  works  he  did  not  put  his  trust ; 

His  faith  in  words  he  never  writ ; 
He  loved  to  share  his  cup  and  crust 
With  all  mankind  who  needed  it. 
In  time  of  need  , 

A  friend  was  he. 
"What  was  his  creed?" 
He  told  not  me. 

He  put  his  trust  in  Heaven,  and  he 

Worked  well  with  hand  and  head ; 
And  what  he  gave  in  charity 

Sweetened  his  sleep  and  daily  bread. 
Let  us  take  heed, 

For  life  is  brief; 
"  What  was  his  creed, 
What  his  belief?" 


TO  THINE  OWN   SELF  BE  TRUE. 

BY  thine  own  soul's  law  learn  to  live, 
And  if  men  thwart  thee  take  no  heed, 
And  if  men  hate  thee  have  no  care ; 
Sing  thou  thy  song  and  do  thy  deed 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     303 

Hope  thou  thy  hope  and  pray  thy  prayer, 
And  claim  no  crown  they  will  not  give, 
Nor  bays  they  grudge  thee  for  thy  hair. 

Keep  thou  thy  soul-sworn  steadfast  oath, 
And  to  thy  heart  be  true  thy  heart ; 
What  thy  soul  teaches  learn  to  know, 
And  play  out  thine  appointed  part ; 
And  thou  shalt  reap  as  thou  shalt  sow, 
Nor  helped  nor  hindered  in  thy  growth, 
To  thy  full  stature  thou  shalt  grow. 

Fix  on  the  future's  goal  thy  face, 
And  let  thy  feet  be  lured  to  stray 
Nowhither,  but  be  swift  to  run, 
And  nowhere  tarry  by  the  way, 
Until  at  last  the  end  is  won, 
And  thou  mayst  look  back  from  thy  place 
And  see  thy  long  day's  journey  done. 
The  Spectator.  PAKENHAM  BEATTY* 


THE  HINDOO   SCEPTIC. 

I  THINK  till  I  weary  with  thinking, 
Said  the  sad-eyed  Hindoo  king, 

And  I  see  but  shadows  around  me, 
Illusion  in  everything. 

How  knowest  thou  aught  of  God, 

Of  his  favor  or  his  wrath  ? 
Can  the  little  fish  tell  what  the  lion  thinks, 

Or  map  out  the  eagle's  path  ? 

Can  the  finite  the  Infinite  search  ? 

Did  the  blind  discover  the  stars  ? 
Is  the  thought  that  I  think  a  thought, 

Or  a  throb  of  the  brain  in  its  bars  ? 

For  aught  that  my  eye  can  discern, 
Your  God  is  what  you  think  good,  — 

Yourself  flashed  back  from  the  glass, 
When  the  light  pours  on  it  in  flood. 

You  preach  to  me  to  be  just, 
And  this  is  his  realm,  you  say  ; 

And  the  good  are  dying  of  hunger, 
And  the  bad  gorge  every  day. 

You  say  that  he  loveth  mercy, 
And  the  famine  is  not  yet  gone ; 

That  he  hateth  the  shedder  of  blood, 
And  he  slayeth  us  every  one. 


304  THE   HUMBLER  POETS, 

You  say  that  my  soul  shall  live, 
That  the  spirit  can  never  die  — 

If  he  were  content  when  I  was  not, 
Why  not  when  I  have  passed  by  ? 

You  say  I  must  have  a  meaning, 

So  must  dung,  and  its  meaning  is  flowers; 

What  if  our  souls  are  but  nurture 
For  lives  that  are  greater  than  ours  ? 

When  the  fish  swims  out  of  the  water, 
When  the  birds  soar  out  of  the  blue, 

Man's  thought  may  transcend  man's  knowledge, 

And  your  God  be  no  reflex  of  you. 
The  Spectator. 


SOME   SWEET  DAY. 

INTO  all  lives  some  rain  must  fall, 

Into  all  eyes  some  tear-drops  start, 
Whether  they  fall  as  gentle  shower, 

Or  fall  like  fire  from  an  aching  heart. 
Into  all  hearts  some  sorrow  must  creep, 

Into  all  souls  some  doubtings  come, 
Lashing  the  waves  of  life's  great  deep 

From  dimpling  waters  to  seething  foam. 

Over  all  paths  some  clouds  must  lower, 

Under  all  feet  some  sharp  thorns  spring, 
Tearing  the  flesh  to  bitter  wounds, 

Or  entering  the  heart  with  their  bitter  sting. 
Upon  all  brows  rough  winds  must  blow, 

Over  all  shoulders  a  cross  be  lain, 
Bowing  the  form  in  its  lofty  height 

Down  to  the  dust  in  bitter  pain. 

Into  all  hands  some  duty  's  thrust ; 

Unto  all  arms  some  burden 's  given, 
Crushing  the  heart  with  its  weary  weight, 

Or  lifting  the  soul  from  earth  to  heaven. 
Into  all  hearts  and  homes  and  lives 

God's  dear  sunlight  comes  streaming  down, 
Gilding  the  ruins  of  life's  great  plain  — 

Weaving  for  all  a  golden  crown. 
The  Presbyterian.  LEWIS  J.  BATES. 


LIFE,.  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     305 


THE  LITTLE  CHURCH   ROUND  THE  CORNER. 

"  BRING  him  not  here,  where  our  sainted  feet 

Are  treading  the  path  to  glory ; 
Bring  him  not  here,  where  our  Saviour  sweet 

Repeats  for  us  his  story. 
Go,  take  him  where  such  things  are  done 

(For  he  sat  in  the  seat  of  the  scorner), 
To  where  they  have  room,  for  we  have  none,  — 

To  the  little  church  round  the  corner." 

So  spake  the  holy  man  of  God, 

Of  another  man,  his  brother, 
Whose  cold  remains,  ere  they  sought  the  sod, 
Had  only  asked  that  a  Christian  rite 
Might  be  read  above  them  by  one  whose  light 

Was,  "  Brethren,  love  one  another ;  " 
Had  only  asked  that  a  prayer  be  read 
Ere  his  flesh  went  down  to  join  the  dead, 
While  his  spirit  looked  with  suppliant  eyes, 
Searching  for  God  throughout  the  skies. 
But  the  priest  frowned  "  No,"  and  his  brow  was  bare 

Of  love  in  the  sight  of  the  mourner, 
And  they  looked  for  Christ  and  found  him  — where? 

In  that  little  church  round  the  corner. 

Ah  !  well,  God  grant  when,  with  aching  feet, 

We  tread  life's  last  few  paces, 
That  we  may  hear  some  accents  sweet, 

And  kiss,  to  the  end,  fond  faces. 
God  grant  that  this  tired  flesh  may  rest 

('Mid  many  a  musing  mourner), 
While  the  sermon  is  preached  and  the  rites  are  read 
In  no  church  where  the  heart  of  love  is  dead. 
And  the  pastor 's  a  pious  prig  at  best, 
But  in  some  small  nook  where  God  's  confessed,  — 

Some  little  church  round  the  corner. 

A.  E.  LANCASTER. 


ROCK   OF  AGES. 

"  ROCK  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me," 

Thoughtlessly  the  maiden  sung, 
Fell  the  words  unconsciously 

From  her  girlish,  gleeful  tongue ; 
Sang  as  little  children  sing ; 

Sang  as  sing  the  birds  in  June ; 
Fell  the  words  like  light  leaves  down 

On  the  current  of  the  tune,  — 
"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 
20 


306  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee,"  — 

Felt  her  soul  no  need  to  hide ; 
Sweet  the  song  as  song  could  be, 

And  she  had  no  thought  beside ; 
All  the  words  unheedingly 

Fell  from  lips  untouched  by  care, 
Dreaming  not  they  each  might  be 

On  some  other  lips  a  prayer  — 
"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me  "  — 

'T  was  a  woman  sung  them  now, 
Pleadingly  and  prayerfully ; 

Every  word  her  heart  did  know. 
Rose  the  song  as  storm-tossed  bird 

Beats  with  weary  wing  the  air  ; 
Every  note  with  sorrow  stirred  — 

Every  syllable  a  prayer,  — 
"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me,"-— 

Lips  grown  aged  sung  the  hymn 
Trustingly  and  tenderly  — 

Voice  grown  weak  and  eyes  grown  dim. 
"  Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee  "  — 

Trembling  though  the  voice  and  low, 
Ran  the  sweet  strain  peacefully, 

Like  a  river  in  its  flow. 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  life's  thorny  paths  have  pressed} 
Sung  as  only  they  can  sing 

Who  behold  the  promised  rest,  — 
"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me, 
Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me," 

Sung  above  a  coffin-lid ; 
Underneath  all  restfully 

All  life's  joys  and  sorrows  hid. 
Nevermore,  O  storm-tossed  soul, 

Nevermore  from  wind  or  tide, 
Nevermore  from  billow's  roll, 

Wilt  thou  need  thyself  to  hide. 
Could  the  sightless,  sunken  eyes, 

Closed  beneath  the  soft  gray  hair, 
Could  the  mute  and  stiffened  lips 

Move  again  in  pleading  prayer ; 
Still,  aye  still  the  words  would  be, 
44  Let  me  hide  myself  in  thee." 

ELLA  MAUD  MOORE. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTEK\.     307 


NIGHT  AND   MORNING. 

WAS  it  a  lie  that  they  told  me, 

Was  it  a  pitiless  hoax  ? 
A  sop  for  my  soul  and  its  longing 

Only  to  cozen  and  coax  ? 

And  a  voice  came  down  through  the  night  and  rain : 
"  They  lied ;  thou  hast  trusted  in  vain." 

Must  I  vanish  off-hand  into  darkness, 

Blown  out  with  a  breath  like  a  lamp  ? 
Have  I  nought  in  the  future  to  look  to 
Save  rotting  in  darkness  and  damp  ? 
And  the  answer  came  with  a  mocking  hiss  : 
"  Thou  hast  nothing  to  look  to  save  this." 

What  of  the  grave  and  its  conquest, 
Of  death  and  the  loss  of  its  sting  ? 
Was  it  only  the  brag  of  a  madman 

Who  believed  an  impossible  thing  ? 
And  the  voice  returned,  as  the  voice  of  a  ghost : 
"  It  was  but  a  madman's  boast." 

Am  I  the  serf  of  my  senses  ? 

Is  my  soul  a  slave  without  rights  ? 
Are  feeding  and  breeding  and  sleeping 

My  first  and  truest  delights  ? 
And  the  cruel  answer  cut  me  afresh : 
"  Thou  art  but  the  serf  of  thy  flesh." 

Is  it  all  for  nought  that  I  travail. 

That  I  long  for  leisure  from  sin, 
That  I  thirst  for  the  pure  and  the  perfect, 

And  feel  like  a  god  within  ? 
The  voice  replied  to  my  passionate  thought : 
"  Thy  longing  and  travail  is  nought." 

Then  I  bowed  my  head  in  my  anguish, 

Folding  my  face  in  my  hands, 
And  I  shuddered  as  one  that  sinketh 

In  the  clutch  of  quaking  sands. 
And  I  stared,  as  I  clinched  my  fingers  tight, 
Out  through  the  black,  black  night. 

For  life  was  shorn  of  its  meaning, 

And  I  cried  :  "  O  God,  is  it  so  ? 

Utter  the  truth  though  it  slay  me, 

Utter  it,  yes  or  no !  " 
But  I  heard  no  answer  to  heal  my  pain, 
Save  the  bluster  of  wind  and  rain. 


308  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  behold,  as  I  sat  in  my  sorrow, 

A  quick  ray  shot  from  the  east, 
Another  and  then  another, 

And  I  knew  that  the  night  had  ceased. 
And  the  dark  clouds  rolled  away  to  the  west 
As  the  great  sun  rose  from  his  rest. 

And  now,  as  the  fair  dawn  broadened, 

Strong  and  joyous  and  bright, 
My  whole  soul  swept  to  meet  it, 

Rapt  with  a  deep  delight ; 
And  a  new  voice  rang  down  the  radiant  skies : 
"  Rejoice ;  I  have  heard  thee.    Arise." 
Good  Wards. 


THE  PRINCE  OF  PEACE. 

DEATH  sent  his  messengers  before. 

"  Our  master  comes  apace/'  they  cried  ; 
"  Ere  nigjht  he  will  be  at  the  door 

To  claim  thy  darling  from  thy  side." 
I  drove  them  forth  with  curses  fell ; 

I  drove  them  forth  with  jeer  and  scoff ; 
Not  all  the  powers  of  heaven  or  hell  • 

Combined  should  bear  my  darling  off. 

I  armed  me  madly  for  the  fight ; 

My  gates  I  bolted,  barred,  and  locked ; 
At  sunset  came  a  sable  knight, 

Dismounted  at  my  doors,  and  knocked. 
I  answered  not ;  he  knocked  again  ; 

I  braved  him  sole,  I  braved  his  band ; 
He  knocked  once  more  —  in  vain,  in  vain; 

My  barriers  crumbled  'neath  his  hand. 

I  rushed  into  the  breach  ;  I  stood 

Dazed  with  the  flood  of  ebbing  light ; 
"  A  victory  over  senseless  wood 

Adds  scanty  glory  to  thy  might ! 
A  stronger  champion  guards  these  walls  — 

A  human  love,  a  living  heart ; 
And  while  each  earthly  bulwark  falls, 

It  stays  thee,  awful  as  thou  art ! " 

My  sabre  shivered  on  his  mail, 

My  lance  dropped  headless  at  his  feet ; 
I  saw  my  darling's  cheek  grow  pale, 

I  saw  her  turn,  my  foe  to  meet. 
He  passed,  —  my  lips  alone  could  move ; 

Mad  words  of  passion  forth  I  hurled : 
"They  lied  who  said  that  God  was  love, 

Who  lets  a  tyrant  rule  the  world." 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERV.     309 

He  gathered  her  to  his  embrace, 

While  yet  I  raved  in  my  despair; 
He  raised  his  visor  from  his  face, 

I  looked,  and  saw  an  angel  there. 
Such  conquering  love,  such  mercy  rare, 

Such  heavenly  pity  in  his  eyes, 
As  surely  Love  Divine  might  wear 

When  He  assumed  our  mortal  guise. 

He  bent  above  her  dear,  dumb  lips  — 

Mine  own,  whom  I  had  loved  top  well  — 
And,  struggling  from  life's  last  eclipse, 

They  smiled  in  peace  ineffable. 
Awe-struck  I  watched ;  he  raised  his  head, 

And  then  in  tones  like  summer's  breath, 
"  Am  I  a  thing  so  vile,"  he  said, 

"  I,  whom  ye  men  call  shuddering  Death  ? " 

And  sword  and  targe  aside  I  flung, 

Forgotten  wrath,  and  loss,  and  pride ; 
To  his  departing  feet  I  clung, 

"  And  me  too,  take  me  too,"  I  cried ; 
"  Without  her  all  is  blank  and  black, 

With  her  and  thee  so  fair  —  me  too ; " 
The  solemn  voice  came  ringing  back, 

"Not  yet,  for  thee  is  work  to  do." 

The  sunset  sank  from  rose  to  gray ; 

His  accents  died  away  with  it, 
And  from  my  soul,  as  from  the  day, 

The  glow  and  glory  seemed  to  flit ; 
And  'mid  my  stronghold's  shattered  strength 

I  knelt  alone,  yet  not  alone ; 
Death's  angel  left  me  hope  at  length 

Through  tasks  fulfilled  to  reach  my  own. 


IF  I  SHOULD  DIE  TO-NIGHT. 


IF  I  should  die  to-night, 
My  friends  would  look  upon  my  quiet  face 
Before  they  laid  it  in  its  resting-place, 
And  deem  that  death  had  left  it  almost  fair ; 
And,  laying  snow-white  flowers  against  my  hair, 
Would  smooth  it  down  with  tearful  tenderness, 
And  fold  my  hands  with  lingering  caress,  — 
Poor  hands,  so  empty  and  so  cold  to-night ! 


310  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

If  I  should  die  to-night,. 

My  friends  would  call  to  mind,  with  loving  thought, 
Some  kindly  deed  the  icy  hands  had  wrought ; 
Some  gentle  word  the  frozen  lips  had  said ; 
Errands  on  which  the  willing  feet  had  sped  ; 
The  memory  of  my  selfishness  and  pride, 
My  hasty  words,  would  all  be  put  aside, 
And  so  I  should  be  loved  and  mourned  to-night. 

If  I  should  die  to-night, 

Even  hearts  estranged  would  turn  once  more  to  me, 
Recalling  other  days  remorsefully ; 
The  eyes  that  chill  me  with  averted  glance 
Would  look  upon  me  as  of  yore,  perchance, 
And  soften,  in  the  old  familiar  way  ; 
For  who  could  war  with  dumb,  unconscious  clay  1 
So  I  might  rest,  forgiven  of  all,  to-night. 

Oh,  friends,  I  pray  to-night, 
Keep  not  your  kisses  for  my  dead,  cold  brow  — 
The  way  is  lonely,  let  me  feel  them  now. 
Think  gently  of  me ;  I  am  travel-worn  ; 
My  faltering  feet  are  pierced  with  many  a  thorn. 
Forgive,  oh,  hearts  estranged,  forgive,  I  plead  1 
When  dreamless  rest  is  mine  I  shall  not  need 
The  tenderness  for  which  I  long  to-night. 

ARABELLA  E.  SMITH. 


THE   BURIAL  OF  MOSES. 

BY  Nebo's  lonely  mountain, 

On  this  side  Jordan's  wave, 
In  a  vale  in  the  land  of  Moab 

There  lies  a  lonely  grave  ; 
And  no  man  dug  that  sepulchre, 

And  no  man  saw  it  e'er ; 
For  the  "  Sons  of  God  "  upturned  the  sod 

And  laid  the  dead  man  there. 

That  was  the  grandest  funeral 

That  ever  passed  on  earth ; 
But  no  man  heard  the  trampling, 

Or  saw  the  train  go  forth. 
Noiselessly  as  the  daylight 

Comes  when  the  night  is  done, 
And  the  crimson  streak  on  ocean's  cheek 

Grows  into  the  great  sun  ; 

Noiselessly  as  the  springtime 
Her  crown  of  verdure  weaves, 

And  all  the  trees  on  all  the  hills 
Put  forth  their  thousand  leaves  : 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATHS  MYSTERY.     311 

So,  without  sound  of  music, 

Or  voice  of  them  that  wept, 
Silently  down  from  the  mountain's  crown 

The  great  procession  swept. 

Perchance  the  bald  old  eagle, 

On  gray  Beth-peor's  height, 
Out  of  his  rocky  eyrie 

Looked  on  the  wondrous  sight ; 
Perchance  the  lion  stalking 

Still  shuns  that  hallowed  spot ; 
For  beast  and  bird  have  seen  and  heard 

That  which  man  knoweth  not. 

But  when  the  warrior  dieth, 

His  comrades  in  the  war, 
With  arms  reversed  and  muffled  drums, 

Follow  the  funeral  car  ; 
They  show  the  banners  taken, 

They  tell  his  victories  won, 
And  after  him  lead  his  masterless  steed, 

While  peals  the  minute-gun. 

Amid  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Men  lay  the  sage  to  rest, 
And  give  the  bard  an  honored  place, 

With  costly  marble  drest. 
In  the  great  minster  transept, 

Where  lights  like  glories  fall, 
And  the  sweet  choir  sings,  and  the  organ  rings 

Along  the  emblazoned  wall. 

This  was  the  bravest  warrior 

That  ever  buckled  sword ; 
This  the  most  gifted  poet 

That  ever  breathed  a  word  ; 
And  never  earth's  philosopher 

Traced  with  his  golden  pen, 
On  the  deathless  page,  truths  half  so  sage 

As  he  wrote  down  for  men. 

And  had  he  not  high  honor  ?  — 

The  hillside  for  his  pall, 
To  lie  in  state  while  angels  wait, 

The  stars  for  tapers  tall ; 
And  the  great  rock-pines,  like  tossing  plumes, 

Over  his  bier  to  wave, 
And  God's  own  hand,  in  that  lonely  land, 

To  lay  him  in  his  grave,  — 

In  that  deep  grave  without  a  name, 

Whence  his  uncoffined  clay 
Shall  break  again  (most  wondrous  thought !) 

Before  the  judgment-day, 


312  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  stand,  with  glory  wrapped  around, 

On  the  hills  he  never  trod, 
And  speak  of  the  strife  that  won  our  life 

With  the  Incarnate  God. 

O  lonely  tomb  in  Moab's  land  I 

O  dark  Beth-peor's  hill ! 
Speak  to  these  anxious  hearts  of  ours, 

And  teach  them  to  be  still. 
God  hath  his  mysteries  of  grace, 

Ways  that  we  cannot  tell ; 
He  hides  them  deep,  like  the  secret  sleep 

Of  him  he  loved  so  well. 

MRS.  C.  F.  ALEXANDER- 


REST  AT  EVENTIDE. 

"  The  night  cometh,  when  no  man  can  work.*' 

FOLD  ye  the  ice-cold  hands 

Calm  on  the  pulseless  breast ; 
The  toil  of  the  summer  day  is  o'er, 

Now  cometh  the  evening  rest ; 
And  the  folded  hands  have  nobly  wrought 

Through  noontide's  din  and  strife, 
And  the  dauntless  heart  hath  bravely  fought 

In  the  ceaseless  war  of  life. 

Smooth  ye  the  time-thinned  hair 

Still  on  the  marble  brow ; 
No  earthly  cloud  doth  linger  there 

To  mar  its  beauty  now. 
But  brow  and  lip  and  darkened  eye 

Bear  a  shade  of  deep  repose, 
As  twilight  shadows  softly  lie 

On  the  wide-spread  winter  snows. 

No  voice  of  discord  wakes 

The  silence  still  and  deep, 
And  the  far-off  sounds  of  worldly  strife 

Cannot  break  the  dreamless  sleep. 
Oh,  welcome  rest  to  a  heart  long  tossed 

On  the  tide  of  hopes  and  fears,  — 
To  the  feet  that  have  wandered  far  and  wide 

O'er  the  weary  waste  of  years. 

From  the  gorgeous  glare  of  day, 

Welcome  the  gentle  night, 
Fading  the  tranquil  lines  away, 

Solemn  and  calm  and  bright. 


UPE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.      313 

Then  tenderly,  tenderly  fold  the  hands 

In  peace  on  the  pulseless  breast, 
For  the  evening  shadows  come  quickly  on, 

And  sweet  is  the  Christian's  rest. 

THOMAS  D'ARCY  McGEE. 


TWO   ROBBERS. 

WHEN  Death  from  some  fair  face 

Is  stealing  life  away, 
All  weep,  save  she,  the  grace 

That  earth  shall  lose  to-day. 

When  Time  from  some  fair  face 

Steals  beauty  year  by  year, 
For  her  slow-fading  grace 

Who  sheds,  save  she,  a  tear  ? 

And  Death  not  often  dares 

To  wake  the  world's  distress ; 
While  Time,  the  cunning,  mars 

Surely  all  loveliness. 

Yet  though  by  breath  and  breath 

Fades  all  thy  fairest  prime, 
Men  shrink  from  cruel  Death, 

But  honor  crafty  Time. 
The  Spectator.  F.  W.  BOURDILLON. 


LAY  ME  LOW. 

LAY  me  low,  my  work  is  done  ; 

I  am  weary.     Lay  me  low, 
Where  the  wild  flowers  woo  the  sun, 

Where  the  balmy  breezes  blow 
Where  the  butterfly  takes  wing, 

Where  the  aspens  drooping  grow, 
Where  the  young  birds  chirp  and  sing ; 

I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

I  have  striven  hard  and  long, 

In  the  world's  unequal  fight, 
Always  to  resist  the  wrong, 

Always  to  maintain  the  right ; 
Always  with  a  stubborn  heart, 

Taking,  giving  blow  for  blow. 
Brother,  I  have  played  my  part, 

And  am  weary,  let  me  go. 


314  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Stern  the  world,  and  bitter  cold, 

Irksome,  painful  to  endure ; 
Everywhere  a  love  of  gold, 

Nowhere  pity  for  the  poor. 
Everywhere  mistrust,  disguise, 

Pride,  hypocrisy,  and  show ; 
Draw  the  curtain,  close  mine  eyes, 

I  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

Others,  'chance,  when  I  am  gone, 

May  restore  the  battle  call ; 
Bravely  lead  a  good  cause  on, 

Fighting  in  the  which  I  fall. 
God  may  quicken  some  true  soul 

Here  to  take  my  place  below 
In  the  hero's  muster-roll ; 

1  am  weary,  let  me  go. 

Shield  and  buckler,  hang  them  up, 

Drape  the  standard  on  the  wall, 
I  have  drained  the  mortal  cup 

To  the  finish,  dregs  and  all. 
When  our  work  is  done,  't  is  best, 

Brother,  best  that  we  should  go. 
I  am  weary,  let  me  rest ; 

I  am  weary,  lay  me  low. 


LIFE  OR  DEATH. 

DOTH  Life  survive  the  touch  of  Death  ? 
Death's  hand  alone  the  secret  holds, 
Which,  as  to  each  one  he  unfolds, 

We  press  to  know  with  bated  breath. 

A  whisper  there,  a  whisper  here, 

Confirms  the  hope  to  which  we  cling ; 
But  still  we  grasp  at  anything, 

And  sometimes  hope  and  sometimes  fear. 

Some  whisper  that  the  dead  we  knew 
Hover  around  us  while  we  pray, 
Anxious  to  speak.     We  cannot  say ; 

We  only  wish  it  may  be  true. 

I  know  a  Stoic,  who  has  thought, 

As  healthy  blood  flows  through  his  veins, 
And  joy  his  present  life  sustains, 

And  all  this  good  has  come  unsought, 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.    315 

For  more  he  cannot  rightly  pray ; 

Life  may  extend,  or  life  may  cease,  — 

He  bides  the  issue,  sure  of  peace, 
Sure  of  the  best  in  God's  own  way. 

Perfection  waits  the  race  of  man  ; 

If,  working  out  this  great  design, 

God  cuts  us  off,  we  must  resign 
To  be  the  refuse  of  his  plan. 

But  I,  for  one,  feel  no  such  peace  ; 

I  dare  to  think  I  have  in  me 

That  which  had  better  never  be, 
If  lost  before  it  can  increase. 

And  oh  !  the  ruined  piles  of  mind, 

Daily  discovered  everywhere, 

Built  but  to  crumble  in  despair  1 
I  dare  not  think  him  so  unkind. 

The  rudest  workman  would  not  fling 

The  fragments  of  his  work  away, 

If  every  useless  bit  of  clay 
He  trod  on  were  a  sentient  thing. 

And  does  the  Wisest  Worker  take 
Quick  human  hearts,  instead  of  stone, 
And  hew  and  carve  them,  one  by  one, 

Nor  heed  the  pangs  with  which  they  break  ? 

And  more  :  if  but  creation's  waste, 
Would  he  have  given  us  sense  to  yearn 
For  the  perfection  none  can  earn, 

And  hope  the  fuller  life  to  taste  ? 

I  think,  if  we  must  cease  to  be, 
It  is  a  cruelty  refined 
To  make  the  instincts  of  our  mind 

Stretch  out  toward  eternity. 

Wherefore  I  welcome  Nature's  cry 
As  earnest  of  a  life  again, 
Where  thought  shall  never  be  in  vain, 

And  doubt  before  the  light  shall  fly. 
Macmillan's  Magazitu.  E.  B 


REST  IN  THE  GRAVE. 

REST  in  the  grave  !  but  rest  is  for  the  weary, 
And  her  slight  limbs  were  hardly  girt  for  toil ; 

Rest  for  lives  worn  out,  deserted,  dreary, 

Which  have  no  brightness  left  for  death  to  spoil. 


3l6  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

We  yearn  for  rest  when  power  and  passion  wasted 
Have  left  to  memory  nothing  but  regret ; 

She  sleeps,  while  life's  best  pleasures,  all  untasted, 
Had  scarce  approached  her  rosy  lips  as  yet. 

Her  childlike  eyes  still  lacked  their  crowning  sweetness, 
Her  form  was  ripening  to  more  perfect  grace ; 

She  died  with  the  pathetic  incompleteness 
Of  beauty's  promise  on  her  pallid  face. 

What  undeveloped  gifts,  what  powers  untested, 
Perchance  with  her  have  passed  away  from  earth ; 

What  germs  of  thought  in  that  young  brain  arrested 
May  never  grow  and  quicken  and  have  birth  1 

She  knew  not  love,  who  might  have  loved  so  truly, 
Though  love-dreams  stirred  her  fancy,  faint  and  fleet ; 

Her  soul's  ethereal  wings  were  budding  newly, 
Her  woman's  heart  had  scarce  begun  to  beat. 

We  drink  the  sweets  of  life,  and  drink  the  bitter, 
And  death  to  us  would  almost  seem  a  boon; 

But  why  to  her,  for  whom  glad  life  were  fitter, 

Should  darkness  come  ere  day  had  reached  its  noon  ? 

No  answer,  —  save  the  echo  of  our  weeping 

Which  from  the  woodland  and  the  moor  is  heard, 

Where,  in  the  springtime,  ruthless  storm-winds,  sweeping, 

Have  slain  the  unborn  flower  and  new-fledged  bird. 
Temple  Bar. 


THE   NARROW   HOUSE. 

A  NARROW  home,  but  very  still  it  seemeth ; 

A  silent  home,  no  stir  of  tumult  here  ; 
Who  wins  that  pillow  of  no  sorrow  dreameth, 

No  whirling  echoes  jar  his  sealed  ear. 
The  tired  hands  lie  very  calm  and  quiet, 

The  weary  feet  no  more  hard  paths  will  tread ; 
The  great  world  may  revolve  in  clash  and  riot, 

To  its  loud  summons  leaps  nor  heart  nor  head. 

The  violets  bloom  above  the  tranquil  sleeper, 

The  morning  dews  fall  gently  on  the  grass ; 
Amid  the  daisies  kneels  the  only  weeper, 

He  knows  not  where  her  lingering  footsteps  pass. 
The  autumn  winds  sigh  softly  o'er  his  slumber, 

The  winter  piles  the  snow-drifts  o'er  his  rest ; 
He  does  not  care  the  flying  years  to  number  — 

The  narrow  home  contents  its  silent  guest. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     317 

No  baffled  hopes  can  haunt,  no  doubt  perplexes, 

No  parted  love  the  deep  repose  can  chafe, 
No  petty  care  can  irk,  no  trouble  vexes, 

From  misconstruction  his  hushed  heart  is  safe. 
Freed  from  the  weariness  of  worldly  fretting, 

From  pain  and  failure,  bootless  toil  and  strife, 
From  the  dull  wretchedness  of  vain  regretting, 

He  lies,  whose  course  has  passed  away  from  life. 

A  narrow  home ;  and  far  beyond  it  lieth 

The  land  whereof  no  mortal  lips  can  tell. 
We  strain  our  sad  eyes  as  the  spirit  flieth ; 

Our  fancy  loves  on  heaven's  bright  hills  to  dwell. 
God  shuts  the  door  no  angel  lip  uncloses, 

They  whom  Christ  raised  no  word  of  guidance  said  $ 
Only  the  cross  speaks  where  our  dust  reposes : 

"  Trust  Him  who  calls  unto  His  rest  our  dead." 


AN  IDEAL  FUTURE. 

I  SELDOM  ponder  the  "future  life," 

I  hold  it  a  waste  of  thought,  you  see, 
For  the  most  that  a  man  may  know  is  this : 

That  which  is  coming  will  surely  be. 
To  those  who  find  comfort  in  baseless  faith 

I  leave  the  old  myth  in  its  newest  dress, 
For  I  can't  cry  credo  the  while  the  creed 

Is  at  most  but  a  clumsy  guess. 

Yet  I  Ve  often  thought,  if  one  had  his  choice 

Of  all  the  heavens  that  man  has  made, 
Which  would  he  choose  for  his  dwelling-place 

When  his  soul  (myth  again)  from  his  body  strayed  ? 
I  Ve  thought  them  over  from  first  to  last, — 

Scarce  one,  I  'm  sure,  did  my  fancy  miss,  — 
And  I  found  that  while  all  contained  much  good, 

Still  not  one  offered  perfect  bliss. 

There  's  Nirvana,  the  region  of  "  blowing  out," 

Where  the  Buddhist's  soul  in  a  stupor  lies ; 
Pain  enters  not  on  that  endless  rest, 

Yet  who  could  such  an  existence  prize  ? 
Better  have  done  with  it,  once  for  all,  — 

Be  utterly  nothing  when  death  is  past,  — 
Than  pester  one's  self  to  redeem  one's  soul, 

And  then  come  to  this  end  at  last. 

There  were  light  and  life  in  the  Blessed  Isles ; 

Still  nobody  seemed  to  exactly  know 
How  he  might  merit  those  Happy  Fields, 

Or  in  which  direction  his  soul  might  go. 


318  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

It  was  n't  a  question  of  good  and  bad  ; 

Only  the  pets  of  the  gods  vvent  there, 
And  Pluto's  realm  might  receive  a  man 

Of  virtue  and  valor  rare. 

Valhalla  offered  a  "  lively  time," 

Enough  of  excitement  was  there,  at  least; 
It  was  guzzle  and  swill,  then  fight  and  kill, 

Then  come  to  life  for  another  feast. 
But,  mercy  on  us!  a  foeman's  skull 

A  very  suggestive  wine-cup  makes, 
And  it  can't  be  pleasant  to  lose  one's  head 

Just  after  each  meal  one  takes. 

In  the  Indian's  Happy  Hunting-grounds 

A  sporting  spirit  were  fitly  placed ; 
But  eternal  camping-out  won't  suit 

A  soul  possessed  of  more  varied  taste. 
Though  a  squaw  has  charms  for  her  russet  beau, 

She  has  passing  few  for  you  and  me, 
And  Eden  devoid  of  a  pretty  face 

Would  a  cheerless  Eden  be. 

'•  Then  turn  to  Mahomet's  Paradise," 

I  think  I  hear  you  in  triumph  say ; 
"  Bathed  in  the  light  of  the  houris'  eyes 

Your  taste  for  beauty  can  have  full  play." 
Softly,  O  friend !  thou  hast  heard  it  said 

Enough  of  a  thing  is  good  as  a  feast ; 
My  ideas  of  "  enough  "  of  such  company 

Don't  agree  with  those  of  the  East. 

And  thus  in  each  heaven  I  find  a  flaw ; 

From  first  to  last  there  is  none  complete ; 
Not  one  where  a  dreaming  epicure 

Can  paint  existence  as  nought  but  sweet. 
He  has  to  take  an  idea  from  each 

To  build  an  Eden  of  perfect  bliss  ; 
Tastes  differ  —  but  mine  would  assume  a  shape 

Nearly,  or  quite,  like  this : 

Elysium's  glory  at  break  of  day, 

The  Hunting-grounds  in  the  cool  of  morn, 
Valhalla's  banquet  at  glowing  eve, 

And  the  houris'  soft  embrace  till  dawn ; 
Nirvana's  rest  when  the  day  is  done, 

For  a  blessing  not  to  be  lost  is  sleep, 
And  weariness  is  a  pleasant  boon, 

That  maketh  the  slumber  deep. 
The  Argonaut.  T.  A.  HARCOURT 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     319 

IN  A  GRAVEYARD. 

(FROM  THE  GERMAN.) 

"  HERE  rests  in  God."    'T  is  all  we  read ; 

The  mouldering  stone  reveals  no  more. 
"  In  God."     Of  other  words  what  need  ? 

These  span  the  broad  eternal  shore. 

O'erladen  with  its  starry  blooms, 
A  jasmine  bush  conceals  the  mound, 

Neglected  in  the  place  of  tombs, 

With  spicy,  golden  sweetness  crowned. 

And  deep  within  its  leafy  breast 

Some  tuneful  bird  has  sought  a  home, 

The  tiny  brood  within  the  nest 
Fearless  and  free  to  go  and  come. 

A  holy  quietude  is  here, 

Save  where  the  happy  birdling's  song 

Breaks  through  the  stillness  pure  and  clear, 
And  echoes  the  dark  firs  among. 

Sleep  on,  sleep  on,  thou  pulseless  heart, 
Where  jasmine  stars  drop  golden  rain, 

From  every  troubled  thought  apart, 
Forgotten  every  earthly  pain. 

Sleep  on  ;  thy  long  repose  is  sweet, 

Tender  and  cool  thy  grassy  sod. 
O  traveller  !  stay  thy  hurrying  feet ; 

Step  softly  here  —  "  he  rests  in  God." 
The  Catholic  World. 


REST. 

WHEN  thou  art  weary  of  the  world,  and  leaning 

Upon  my  breast, 
My  soul  will  show  to  thine  its  hidden  meaning, 

And  thou  shalt  rest. 
When  thou  art  eagerly  but  vainly  aiming 

At  some  far  end, 
Thou  knowest  not  thy  pining  and  complaining 

Have  pierced  thy  Friend. 
My  presence  is  around  thee  and  about  thee  — 

Thou  dost  not  know  — 
But  if  thou  knewest,  thou  wouldst  not  doubt  me, 

I  love  thee  so. 


320  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Thou  art  a  very  child,  and  needest  guiding,— 

Thee  I  will  lead  ; 
Another  guide  might  be  too  quick  in  chiding, 

Nor  know  thy  need. 

Lean  on  me,  child  —  nor  faint  beneath  thy  sighing, 

With  help  so  near  ; 
I  took  upon  me  all  thy  grief  and  dying, 

To  heal  thy  fear. 
When  thou  art  resting  in  my  secret  dwelling, 

Shadowed  by  me, 
Thou  shalt  not  tire  of  listening  —  I  of  telling 

My  love  for  thee. 
Thine  eyes  are  bent  upon  each  loving  token 

Sent  by  my  hand  ; 
With  these  alone  thy  spirit  would  be  broken 

In  thy  fair  land. 
Thou  art  a  lover  of  all  things  of  beauty 

In  earth  and  space ; 
Then,  surely,  't  were  thy  pleasure  and  thy  duty 

Their  source  to  trace. 

Track  the  bright  river  of  each  much-prized  blessing 

Back  to  its  source  ; 
See  all  the  blooming  growth  thy  foot  is  pressing 

Along  its  course. 
See,  gathered  in  the  storehouse  of  sweet  dreaming, 

Each  glowing  thought 
Which  daylight,  starlight,  or  the  moon's  sweet  gleaming 

To  thee  have  brought. 
All  real  beauty  which  thy  heart  is  greeting 

In  this  fair  earth, 
All  music  which  thy  charmed  ear  is  meeting, 

From  me  had  birth. 
But  this  will  be  revealed  when  thou  art  leaning 

Upon  my  breast ; 
Thy  soul  shall  comprehend  my  hidden  meaning  — 

And  thou  shalt  rest. 
Chambers'*  Journal. 


THE  CHURCH  STEPS. 

Two  centuries  of  steps  and  then 

A  field  of  graves  ! 
With  many  a  sculptured  tale  of  men 

Lost  in  the  waves. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.      321 

You  climb  and  climb,  with  here  and  there 

A  seat  for  breath, 
To  find  amid  the  loftier  air 

A  realm  of  death. 

And  thus  it  is  with  human  life  — 

Men  toil  to  rise, 
And  lo  !  above  the  strain  and  strife 

A  graveyard  lies. 

Two  centuries  of  steps,  and  then 

Amid  the  graves 
A  holy  house  that  tells  to  men 

Of  Him  that  saves. 

O  weary  men,  and  women  worn, 

That  there  have  found 
And  find  bright  hints  of  heavenly  morn 

On  earthly  ground ! 

And  so  atop  the  steps  of  time, 

If  climbed  aright, 
Heaven's  glad  and  everlasting  clime, 

And  home  of  light. 

GEORGE  T.  FOSTER. 


NEARING  PORT. 

THE  noble  river  widens  as  we  drift, 
And  the  deep  waters  more  than  brackish  grow  j 
We  note  the  sea-birds  flying  to  and  fro, 
And  feel  the  ocean-currents  plainly  lift 
Our  bark,  and  yet  our  course  we  would  not  shift : 
These  are  but  signs  by  which  the  boatmen  know 
They  're  drawing  near  the  port  to  which  they  go 
To  land  their  cargo  or  to  bring  their  gift. 
So  may  our  lives  reach  out  on  either  hand, 
Broader  and  broader,  as  the  end  draws  near ; 
So  may  we  seek  God's  truths  to  understand, 
As  the  sea-birds  shelter  seek  when  storms  appear ; 
So  may  the  currents  from  the  heavenly  sea 
Lift  us  and  bear  us  to  eternity. 
fackv>n>  Mich.  C.  P.  R. 


21 


322  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


GIVE   ME  REST. 

ONLY  one  moment  unfettered  by  care, 
Hushed  as  the  temple  devoted  to  prayer, 

When  heaven  is  painting  the  west, 
Flooding  the  sky  through  its  portals  ajar, 
Looping  the  curtains  of  night  with  a  star  — 
Give  me  rest. 

Spirit  of  power,  forever  you  '11  reign, 
Tyrant,  enslaving  the  heart  and  the  brain, 

With  every  endeavor  oppressed. 
Sick  of  the  lessons  that  Nature  has  taught, 
Weary  with  burdens  of  infinite  thought  — 
Give  me  rest. 

Grant  me  a  potion  lethean,  a  draught 
Sparkling  with  tranquil  repose  never  quaffed 

By  mortals  at  pleasure's  behest. 
Give  me  a  peace  the  world  cannot  give  — 
Respite  from  action ;  to  act  is  to  live  — 
Give  me  rest. 

Ceaseless  the  toil  of  the  spirit  distraught, 
Boundless  the  realm  of  invisible  thought, 

Where  imagery  lingers  caressed. 
Waves  of  oblivion  over  me  roll, 
Welcome  forgetfulness  bring  to  my  soul  — 
Give  me  rest. 


THE  KING'S   SHIPS. 

GOD  hath  so  many  ships  upon  the  sea ; 

His  are  the  merchantmen  that  carry  treasure, 
The  men-of-war,  all  bannered  gallantly, 

The  little  other  boats,  and  barks  of  pleasure. 
On  all  this  sea  of  time  there  is  not  one 
That  sailed  without  the  glorious  name  thereon. 

The  winds  go  up  and  down  upon  the  sea, 

And  some  they  lightly  clasp,  entreating  kindly, 

And  waft  them  to  the  port  where  they  would  be, 
And  other  ships  they  buffet  long  and  blindly. 

The  cloud  comes  down  on  the  great  sinking  deep, 

And  on  the  shore  the  watchers  stand  and  weep. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATHS  MYSTERY.      323 

And  God  hath  many  wrecks  within  the  sea ; 

Oh,  it  is  deep  !     I  look  in  fear  and  wonder; 
The  Wisdom  throned  above  is  dark  to  me, 

Yet  it  is  sweet  to  think  his  care  is  under ; 
That  yet  the  sunken  treasure  may  be  drawn 
Into  his  storehouse  —  when  the  sea  is  gone. 

So  I,  that  sail  in  peril  on  the  sea 

With  my  beloved,  whom  the  waves  may  cover, 
Say,  God  hath  more  than  angel's  care  of  me, 

And  larger  share  than  I  in  friend  and  lover. 
Why  weep  ye  so,  ye  watchers  on  the  land? 
This  deep  is  but  the  hollow  of  his  hand. 

CAROLINE  SPENCER. 


THE   PARSON'S   COMFORTER. 

THE  parson  goes  about  his  daily  ways, 
With  all  the  parish  troubles  on  his  head, 

And  takes  his  Bible  out,  and  reads  and  prays 
Beside  the  sufferer's  chair,  the  dying  bed. 

Whate'er  the  secret  skeleton  may  be  — 

Doubt,  drink,  or  debt  —  that  keeps  within  his  lair, 
When  parson  comes,  the  owner  turns  the  key, 

And  lets  him  out  to  "  squeak  and  gibber  "  there. 

It  seems  a  possibility  unguessed  — 

Or  little  borne  in  mind,  if  haply  known  — 

That  he  who  cheers  in  trouble  all  the  rest 
May,  now  and  then,  have  troubles  of  his  own. 

Alas !  God  knows  he  has  his  foes  to  fight, 

His  closet-atomy,  severe  and  grim  ; 
All  others  claim  his  comfort  as  of  right, 

But,  hapless  parson  !  who  shall  comfort  him  ? 

A  friend  he  has  to  whom  he  may  repair 

(Besides  that  One  who  carries  all  our  grief), 

And  when  his  load  is  more  than  he  can  bear, 
He  seeks  his  comforter,  and  finds  relief. 

He  finds  a  cottage,  very  poor  and  small, 
The  meanest  tenement  where  all  are  mean ; 

Yet  decency  and  order  mark  it  all,  — 

The  panes  are  bright,  the  steps  severely  clean. 

He  lifts  the  latch  ;  his  comforter  is  there, 

Propt  in  the  bed,  where  now  for  weeks  she  stays, 

Or,  haply,  seated,  knitting,  in  her  chair, 
If  this  be  one  of  those  rare  "better  davs." 


324  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

A  tiny  woman,  stunted,  bent,  and  thin ; 

Her  features  sharp  with  pain  that  always  wakes; 
The  nimble  hand  she  holds  the  needles  in 

Is  warped  and  wrenched  by  dire  rheumatic  aches. 

Sometimes  she  gets  a  grateful  change  of  pain, 
Sometimes  for  half  a  day  she  quits  her  bed ; 

And  —  lying,  sitting,  crawled  to  bed  again  — 
Always  she  knits ;  her  needles  win  her  bread. 

Too  well  she  knows  what 't  is  a  meal  to  miss, 
Often  the  grate  has  not  a  coal  of  fire : 

She  has  no  hope  of  better  things  than  this  ; 
The  future  darkens,  suffering  grows  more  dire. 

Where  will  they  take  her,  if  betide  it  should 
Her  stiffened  hands  the  needles  cannot  ply  ? 

Not  to  the  workhouse,  —  God  is  very  good  ; 
He  knows  her  weakness  —  he  will  let  her  die. 

Sometimes,  but  seldom,  neighbors  hear  her  moan, 
Wrung  by  some  sudden  stress  of  fiercer  pain ; 

Often  they  hear  her  pray,  but  none  has  known, 
No  single  soul  has  heard  her  lips  complain. 

The  parson  enters,  and  a  gracious  smile 

Over  the  poor,  pinched  features  brightly  grows ; 

She  lets  the  needles  rest  a  little  while ; 
"  You  're  kindly  welcome,  sir  1 "    Ah,  that  he  knows. 

He  takes  the  Book,  and  opens  at  the  place  — 
No  need  to  ask  her  which  her  favorite  psalm : 

And,  as  he  reads,  upon  her  tortured  face 
There  comes  a  holy  rapture,  deep  and  calm. 

She  murmurs  softly  with  him  as  he  reads 
(She  can  repeat  the  Psalter  through  at  will) : 

"  He  feeds  me  in  green  pastures,  and  he  leads,  — 
He  leads  me  forth  beside  the  waters  still. 

"  Yea,  through  death's  shadowy  valley  though  I  tread, 
I  will  not  fear,  for  Thou  dost  show  the  way ; 

Thy  holy  oil  is  poured  upon  my  head, 
Thy  loving-kindness  follows  me  for  aye." 

The  reading  's  done,  and  now  the  prayer  is  said ; 

He  bids  farewell,  and  leaves  her  to  her  pain : 
But  grace  and  blessing  on  his  soul  are  shed,  — 

He  goes  forth  comforted  and  strong  again. 


LIFE,  RELIGION,  AND  DEATH'S  MYSTERY.     325 

He  takes  his  way,  on  divers  errands  bound, 
Abler  to  plead,  and  warn,  and  comfort  woes ; 

That  is  the  darkest  house  on  all  his  round, 

And  yet,  be  sure,  the  happiest  house  he  knows. 

Will  it  not  ease,  poor  soul,  thy  restless  bed, 
And  make  thee  more  content,  if  that  can  be, 

To  know  that  from  thy  suffering  balm  is  shed, 
That  comforts  him  who  comes  to  comfort  thee  ? 

FREDERICK  LANGBRIDGI 


WE  SHALL  BE   SATISFIED. 

THE  course  of  the  weariest  river 

Ends  in  the  great,  gray  sea  ; 
The  acorn  forever  and  ever 

Strives  upward  to  the  tree  ; 
The  rainbow,  the  sky  adorning, 

Shines  promise  through  the  storm ; 
The  glimmer  of  coming  morning 

Through  midnight  gloom  will  form. 
By  time  all  knots  are  riven, 

Complex  although  they  be, 
And  peace  will  at  last  be  given, 

Dear,  both  to  you  and  me. 

Then,  though  the  path  be  dreary, 

Look  forward  to  the  goal ; 
Though  the  heart  and  the  head  be  weary, 

Let  faith  inspire  the  soul ; 
Seek  the  right,  though  the  wrong  be  tempting ; 

Speak  the  truth  at  any  cost ; 
Vain  is  all  weak  exempting 

When  once  that  gem  is  lost; 
Let  strong  hand  and  keen  eye  be  ready 

For  plain  or  ambushed  foes ; 
Thought  earnest  and  fancy  steady 

Bear  best  unto  the  close. 

The  heavy  clouds  may  be  raining, 

But  with  evening  comes  the  light; 
Through  the  dark,  low  winds  complaining, 

Yet  the  sunrise  gilds  the  height; 
And  Love  has  his  hidden  treasure 

For  the  patient  and  the  pure ; 
And  Time  gives  his  fullest  measure 

To  the  workers  who  endure ; 
And  the  word  that  no  lore  has  shaken 

Has  the  future  pledge  supplied ; 
For  we  know  that  when  we  "  awaken  " 

We  shall  be  "satisfied." 

S.  K.  PHILLIPS 


326  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


"ACROSS   THE  LOT." 

Do  you  remember,  when  we  came  from  school 
(You  leading  me,  although  not  much  the  older), 

How  I  would  skip  across  the  meadow  cool, 
Saucily  calling  backward,  o'er  my  shoulder, 

"  Do  as  you  please,  —  come  on  with  me  or  not, 

But  I  am  going  home  across  the  lot "  ? 

Away  I  danced,  and  you,  though  left  alone, 
Pursued  the  way,  with  face  serene  and  smiling, 

Singing  beside  the  road  with  low,  sweet  tone, 

And  still  one  thought  your  tender  heart  beguiling; 

Wild  though  I  was,  you  knew  that  I  would  wait 

To  meet  and  greet  you  at  the  garden-gate. 

There  with  a  bunch  of  flowers  would  I  stand, 

Or  fresh-plucked  apples,  with  their  ripeness  blushing, 

Or  with  a  glass  of  water  in  my  hand. 

Just  brought  from  where  the  hillside  spring  was  gushing, 

Saying,  as  you  bent  down  to  quench  your  thirst, 

"  Now,  are  n't  you  glad  that  I  am  home  the  first?" 

I  am  dying,  sister  —  start  not  1  Well  I  know 
That  day  by  day  my  little  strength  is  failing ; 

Strive  not  to  hold  me  back,  for  I  must  go ;  — 
God's  mighty  love  o'er  my  weak  will  prevailing 

Frees  you  from  care  and  me  from  pain  accurst : 

'T  is  only  that  I  shall  be  home  the  first. 

And  as  of  old,  sweet  sister,  I  will  stand, 
Until  you  come,  beside  the  heavenly  portal, 

Keeping  the  fadeless  wreath  within  my  hand 
With  which  to  crown  you  for  your  life  immortal. 

Others  will  call  me  dead :  believe  them  not  — 

I  only  have  gone  home  "  across  the  lot." 

C.  S. 


PART   XI. 
a  £torp  to 


//  may  be  glorious  to  "write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 
Once  in  a  century;  — 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  -word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men  ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
'Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  clear  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  untutored  heart. 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose. 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with  those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye, 

LOWELL. 


PART  XL 

JDitl)  a  £torp  to 


LITTLE  PHIL. 

"  MAKE  me  a  headboard,  mister,  smooth  and  painted.    You  see, 
Our  ma  she  died  last  winter,  and  sister  and  Jack  and  me 
Last  Sunday  could  hardly  find  her,  so  many  new  graves  about, 
And  Bud  cried  out,  *  We  Ve  lost  her,'  when  Jack  gave  a  little 

shout. 
We  have  worked  and  saved  all  winter — been  hungry,  sometimes 

I  own  — 

But  we  hid  this  much  from  father,  under  the  old  door-stone : 
He  never  goes  there  to  see  her  ;  he  hated  her ;  scolded  Jack 
When  he  heard  us  talking  about  her  and  wishing  that  she  'd 

come  back. 

But  up  in  the  garret  we  whisper,  and  have  a  good  time  to  cry, 
For  our  beautiful  mother  who  kissed  us,  and  was  n't  afraid  to  die. 
Put  on  that  she  was  forty,  in  November  she  went  away, 
That  she  was  the  best  of  mothers,  and  we  have  n't  forgot  to  pray ; 
And  we  mean  to  do  as  she  taught  us — be  loving  and  true  and 

square, 

To  work  and  read  —  to  love  her,  till  we  go  to  her  up  there. 
Let  the  board  be  white,  like  mothe    ( the  small  chin  quivered 

here, 
And  the  lad  coughed  something  under  and  conquered  a  rebel 

tear). 

Here  is  all  we  could  keep  from  father,  a  dollar  and  thirty  cents , 
The  rest  he 's  got  for  coal  and  flour,  and  partly  to  pay  the  rents." 
Blushing  the  while  all  over,  and  dropping  the  honest  eyes : 
"  What  is  the  price  of  headboards,  with  writing,  and  handsome 

size  ? " 
"Three  dollars!"  — A  young  roe  wounded  just  falls  with  a 

moan ;  and  he, 
With  a  face  like  the  ghost  of  his  mother,  sank  down  on  his 

tattered  knee. 
"  Three  dollars  !  and  we  shall  lose  her;  next  winter  the  rain  and 

the  snow  —  " 
But  the  boss  had  his  arms  about  him,  and  cuddled  the  head  of 

tow 


330  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Close  up  to  the  great  heart's  shelter,  and  womanly  tears  fell 

fast  — 

"  Dear  boy,  you  shall  never  lose  her ;  oh,  cling  to  your  sacred  past ! 
Come  to-morrow,  and  bring  your  sister  and  Jack,  and  the  board 

shall  be 
The  best  that  this  shop  can  furnish ;  then  come  here  and  live 

with  me." 

When  the  orphans  loaded  their  treasure  on  the  rugged  old  cart 

next  day,  — 
The  surprise  of  a  footboard  varnish,  with  all  that  their  love 

could  say  ; 
And  "  Edith  St.  John,  Our  Mother,"  —  Baby  Jack  gave  his  little 

shout, 

And  Bud,  like  a  mountain  daisy,  went  dancing  her  doll  about; 
But  Phil  grew  white,  and  trembled,  and  close  to  the  boss  he  crept; 
Kissing  him  like  a  woman,  shivered,  and  laughed,  and  wept. 
"  Do  you  think,  my  benefactor,  in  heaven  that  she  '11  be  glad  ?  " 
"  Not  as  glad  as  you  are,  Philip  —  but  finish  this  job,  my  lad." 

MRS.  HELEN  RICH. 


BILLY'S  ROSE. 

BILLY'S  dead  and  gone  to  glory  —  so  is  Billy's  sister  Nell ; 
There 's  a  tale  I  know  about  them  were  I  poet  I  would  tell ; 
Soft  it  comes,  with  perfume  laden,  like  a  breath  of  country  air 
Wafted  down  the  filthy  alley,  bringing  fragrant  odors  there. 

In  that  vile  and  filthy  alley,  long  ago,  one  winter's  day, 
Dying  quick  of  want  and  fever,  hapless,  patient  Billy  lay ; 
While  beside  him  sat  his  sister,  in  the  garret's  dismal  gloom, 
Cheering  with  her  gentle  presence  Billy's  pathway  to  the  tomb. 

Many  a  tale  of  elf  and  fairy  did  she  tell  the  dying  child, 

Till  his  eyes  lost  half  their  anguish,  and  her  worn,  wan  features 

smiled,  — 

Tales  herself  had  heard  haphazard,  caught  amid  the  Babel  roar, 
Lisped  about  by  tiny  gossips  playing  at  their  mothers'  door. 

Then  she  felt  his  wasted  fingers  tighten  feebly  as  she  told 
How  beyond  this  dismal  alley  lay  a  land  of  shining  gold, 
Where,  when  all  the  pain  was  over,  where,  when  all  the  tears 

were  shed, 
He  would  be  a  white-frocked  angel,  with  a  gold  thing  on  his  head. 

Then  she  told  some  garbled  story  of  a  kind-eyed  Saviour's  love ; 
How  he'd  built  for  little  children  great  big  playgrounds  up 

above, 
Where  they  sang,  and  played  at  hop-scotch  and  at  horses  all 

the  day, 
And  where  beadles  and  policemen  never  frightened  them  away. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO   TELL.  331 

This  was  Nell's  idea  of  heaven,  —  just  a  bit  of  what  she  *d  heard, 
With  a  little  bit  invented,  and  a  little  bit  inferred; 
But  her  brother  lay  and  listened,  and  he  seemed  to  understand, 
For  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  murmured  he  could  see  the  Promised 
Land. 

"  Yes,"  he  whispered,  "  I  can  see  it  —  I  can  see  it,  sister  Nell, 
Oh,  the  children  look  so  happy,  and  they  're  all  so  strong  and 

well; 

I  can  see  them  there  with  Jesus, — he  is  playing  with  them  too ; 
Let  us  run  away  and  join  them,  if  there  's  room  for  me  and  you." 

She  was  eight,  this  little  maiden,  and  her  life  had  all  been  spent 
In  the  alley  and  the  garret,  where  they  starved  to  pay  the  rent ; 
Where  a  drunken  father's  curses  and  a  drunken  mother's  blows 
Drove  her  forth  into  the  gutter  from  the  day's  dawn  to  its  close. 

But  she  knew  enough,  this  outcast,  just  to  tell  the  sinking  boy, 
"  You  must  die  before  you  're  able  all  these  blessings  to  enjoy. 
You  must  die,"  she  whispered,  "Billy,  and  /am  not  even  ill, 
But  I  '11  come  to  you,  dear  brother,  yes,  I  promise  you  I  will. 

"You  are  dying,  little  brother, — you  are  dying,  oh,  so  fast ! 
I  heard  father  say  to  mother  that  he  knew  you  could  n't  last. 
They  will  put  you  in  a  coffin,  then  you  '11  wake  and  be  up  there, 
While  I  'm  left  alone  to  suffer  in  this  garret  bleak  and  bare." 

"  Yes,  I  know  it,"  answered  Billy.  "  Ah,  but,  sister,  I  don't  mind ; 
Gentle  Jesus  will  not  beat  me — he's  not  cruel  or  unkind; 
But  I  can't  help  thinking,  Nelly,  I  would  like  to  take  away 
Something,  sister,  that  you  gave  me,  I  might  look  at  every  day. 

"  In  the  summer,  you  remember  how  the  Mission  took  us  out 
To  the  great,  green,  lovely  meadow,  where  we  played  and  ran 

about ; 

And  the  van  that  took  us  halted  by  a  sweet  white  patch  of  land, 
Where  the  fine  red  blossoms  grew,  dear,  half  as  big  as  mother's 

hand. 

"  Nell,  I  asked  the  kind,  good  teacher,  what  they  called  such 

flowers  as  those, 

And  he  told  me,  I  remember,  that  the  pretty  name  was  *  rose.' 
I  have  never  seen  them  since,  dear,  —  how  I  wish  that  I  had  one ! 
Just  to  keep,  and  think  of  you,  Nell,  when  I  'm  up  beyond  the 

sun." 

Not  a  word  said  little  Nelly ;  but  at  night,  when  Billy  slept, 
On  she  flung  her  scanty  garments,  down  the  creaking  stairs  she 

crept ; 

Through  the  silent  streets  of  London  she  ran  nimbly  as  a  fawn, 
Running  on  and  running  ever,  till  the  night  had  changed  to  dawn. 


332  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

When  the  foggy  sun  had  risen,  and  the  mist  had  cleared  away, 
All  around  her,  wrapped  in  snow-drift,  there  the  open  country 

lay; 
She  was  tired,  her  limbs  were  frozen,  and  the  roads  had  cut  her 

feet, 
But  there  came  no  flowery  gardens  her  keen,  hungry  eyes  to  meet 

She  had  traced  the  road  by  asking ;  she  had  learnt  the  way  to  go ; 
She  had  found  the  famous  meadow  —  it  was  wrapped  in  cruel 

snow; 

Not  a  buttercup  or  daisy,  not  a  single  verdant  blade, 
Showed  its  head  above  its  prison.    Then  she  knelt  her  down 

and  prayed. 

With  her  eyes  upcast  to  heaven.,  down  she  sank  upon  the  ground, 
And  she  prayed  to  God  to  tell  her  where  the  roses  might  be 

found. 
Then  the  cold  blast  numbed  her  senses,  and  her  sight  grew 

strangely  dim, 
And  a  sudden,  awful  tremor  seemed  to  rack  her  every  limb. 

"  Oh,  a  rose ! "  she  moaned,  "good  Jesus,  just  a  rose  to  take  to 

Bill ! " 

Even  as  she  prayed,  a  chariot  came  thundering  down  the  hill ; 
And  a  lady  sat  there  toying  with  a  red  rose,  rare  and  sweet ; 
As  she  passed  she  flung  it  from  her,  and  it  fell  at  Nelly's  feet. 

Just  a  word  her  lord  had  spoken  caused  her  ladyship  to  fret, 
And  the  rose  had  been  his  present,  so  she  flung  it  in  a  pet ; 
But  the  poor,  half-blinded  Nelly  thought  it  fallen  from  the  skies, 
And  she  murmured,  "  Thank  you,  Saviour,"  as  she  clasped  the 
dainty  prize. 

Lo  I  that  night  from  out  the  alley  did  a  child's  soul  pass  away 
From  dirt  and  sin  and  misery,  to  where  God's  children  play. 
Lo !  that  night  a  wild,  fierce  snow-storm  burst  in  fury  o'er  the 

land, 
And  at  morn  they  found  Nell,  frozen,  with  the  red  rose  in  her 

hand. 

Billy 's  dead  and  gone  to  glory  —  so  is  Billy's  sister  Nell  ; 
Am  I  bold,  to  say  this  happened  in  the  land  where  angels  dwell : 
That  the  children  met  in  heaven,  after  all  their  earthly  woes, 
And  that  Nelly  kissed  her  brother,  saying,  "  Billy,  here 's  your 
rose  "  ? 


TOLD  AT  THE  TAVERN. 

I  CAN  see  you  're  a  gentleman ;  time  has  been  — 
Though  you  would  n't  think  it  to  look  at  me,  dressed 

In  these  beggarly  rags,  and  bloated  with  gin  — 
I  held  my  head  as  high  as  the  best. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO  TELL.        333 

Reduced  ?    I  should  say  so !     Stand  a  treat  — 
I  'm  shaky,  you  see,  and  dead  for  a  drink  — 

And  then,  if  you  Ve  time,  I  '11  tell  you,  complete, 
A  tale  that  '11  quicken  your  blood,  as  I  think. 

I  was  a  countryman  born,  brought  up  on  a  farm 
(It  fell  to  my  share  when  the  old  man  died), 

Got  married  at  twenty,  and  little  of  harm 
Was  prophesied  then  of  me  and  my  bride. 

Things  ran  along  smooth,  and  money  came  in, 
And  my  acres  increased  as  the  years  went  by, 

And  nothing  of  sorrow,  or  care,  or  sin, 
Came  thither  to  trouble  my  wife  and  I. 

We  'd  been  married,  I  guess,  a  dozen  of  years, 

When  our  only  child,  a  girl,  was  born. 
A  husband  yourself  ?     You  '11  pardon  my  tears, 

For  the  birth  at  night  there  was  death  at  morn. 

The  girl  grew  up  —  was  the  village  queen, 

Reigning  by  right  of  her  violet  eyes, 
Of  her  cheek's  rich  bloom,  and  marvellous  sheen 

Of  the  goldenest  ringlets  under  the  skies. 

Poetical  ?    Ay ;  but  she  was  a  saint, 

And  her  pure,  pale  brow  forever  appears 
When  I  tell  the  tale  ;  and  the  old-time  plaint 

Stirs  itself  to  a  language  of  tears. 

What  gold  could  buy  she  had  only  to  ask  \ 
She  was  all  I  had,  and  should  I  be  mean  ? 

To  humor  her  whims  was  an  envious  task  ; 

I  'd  have  sold  my  soul  for  my  golden-haired  queen. 

The  love  I  lavished  she  paid  tenfold ; 

I  was  all  to  her  as  she  all  to  me  ; 
No  angel  in  heaven  of  gentler  mould, 

Or  tenderer,  lovinger  heart  than  she. 

But  —  your  pardon  again  —  her  girlhood's  prime  — 
Well,  the  child  had  no  mother,  knew  nought  of  sin. 

This  bunch  in  my  throat !  —  please  spare  me  a  dime 
To  wash  it  down  with  a  tumbler  of  gin. 

In  her  beautiful  prime  the  tempter  came  ; 

Through  such  as  he  the  angels  fell ; 
He  had  wealth  of  words,  and  mien,  and  a  name  — 

Ah,  he  bore  the  title  of  "  Gentleman  "  well  1 

He  made  long  prayers,  to  be  seen  of  men ; 

Sinners  he  urged  from  the  wrath  to  come : 
He  met  my  innocent  girl  —  and  then  — 

Let 's  mix  that  gin  with  a  trifle  of  rum  I 


334  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

You  know  it  all  ?     Yes,  the  tale  is  old, 
And  worn  to  shreds  by  poets  and  priests ; 

But  it 's  little  you  know  of  the  heart  I  hold  — 
Of  its  bitter,  blasted,  Dead  Sea  feasts. 

Did  she  die  ?     Of  course  !     To  fall  was  death  ; 

Could  she  live  dishonored,  forsaken,  betrayed  ? 
He  ?     Somewhere,  I  suppose,  his  scented  breath 

Lifts  eloquent  prayers  to  Him  who  made. 

Remorse  ?     Ay,  ay  ;  to  the  utmost  streM  f 
Repentance  ?    Don't  pray,  sir,  trifle  wifb  me  ; 

I  could  curse  whoever  would  plead  for  a  wretch 
So  lost  to  honor  and  manhood  as  he  1 

And  so,  as  you  see,  I  took  to  drink ; 

Can  you  stand  another  ?     I  'm  in  your  deott 
A.  pitiful  tale  ?     I  should  rather  think  1 

And  true  as  God's  own  gospel,  you  bet. 

THEC  F    HAVERS. 


RETRIBUTION. 

HERE,  you,  policeman,  just  step  inside ; 

See  this  young  woman  here  — 
Only  just  died. 

Facts  in  the  case  look  to  be 
Somewhat  peculiar ; 

Cause  of  death  as  you  see, 
Stabbed  in  the  side. 

Me  and  Maud  Myrtle  was  standing  right  here, 

Takin'  a  drink  ; 
In  come  a  loafer,  chock  full  o'  beer, 

Leading  a  little  child  sweet  as  a  pink ; 
Not  more  'n  three  years  old,  pretty  and  bright, 
Such  little  chaps  as  him  's  good  for  the  eight. 
First  thing  we  knowed  the  villain  was  rarin', 
An'  cursin',  and  swearin', 

To  make  the  child  drink. 

Maud  was  the  nearest  by, 
Sprung  at  him  with  a  cry, 

Dashed  the  glass  down ! 
Glared  the  brute's  evil  eye, 

Wicked  his  frown. 
Quick  as  the  lightning's  gleam 

Flashed  out  the  villain's  knife; 
Maud  gave  one  gurgling  scream 

As  the  steel  reached  her  life— 
Tore  through  her  tender  side. 
So  the  girl  died  1 


WITH  A  STORY  TO  TELL.        335 

Policeman  —  there  she  lies, 

Resting  at  last ! 
Trouble  was  twins  with  her ; 

That  is  all  past ! 
Her  life  was  hard  enough, 
Bore  on  her  rather  rough  ; 

But  to  see  that  peaceful  face, 
Pale  and  sweet  beneath  the  light, 

Goes  to  argue  that  the  place 
Where  she  's  travelled  to  to-night, 

Whatso  sort  of  world  it  is, 

Can't  be  worse  for  her  than  this. 


The  murderer  ?    Yes  ! 

Yonder  he  lies ; 
Dead  in  the  dirt, 

Like  a  dog  he  dies. 

Some  says  its  doubtful  if  hanging  's  played  out, 
It  don't  suit  me  to  admit  of  a  doubt. 

Think  I  'm  wanted !     Do  you,  though  ? 

Well,  let's  go. 

DAVID  L.  PROUDFIT. 
Daily  Graphic.  (Peleg  Arkwright.) 


ONLY  JOE. 

THIS  grave  were  ye  meanin',  stranger  ?    Oh,  there 's  nobody 

much  lies  here ; 

It 's  only  poor  Joe,  a  dazed  lad  —  been  dead  now  better  'n  a  year. 
He  was  nobody's  child,  this  Joe,  sir  —  orphaned  the  hour  of  his 

birth, 
And  simple  and  dazed  all  his  life,  yet  the  harmlessest  cretur 

on  earth. 

Some  say  that  he  died  broken-hearted;  but  that  is  all  nonsense, 

you  know, 
For  a  body  could  never  do  that  as  were  simple  and  dazed  like 

Joe. 

But  I  '11  tell  you  the  story,  stranger,  an*  then  you  can  readily  see 
How  easy  for  some  folks  to  fancy  a  thing  that  never  could  be. 


Do  you  see  that  grave  over  yonder  ?    Well,  the  minister's 

daughter  lies  there ; 

She  were  a  regular  beauty,  an*  as  good  as  she  were  fair. 
She  'd  a  nod  an'  a  kind  word  for  Joe,  sir,  whenever  she  passed 

him  by ; 
But  bless  ye,  that  were  nothin'  —  she  could  n't  hurt  even  a  fly. 


330  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

It  wern't  very  often,  I  reckon,  that  people  a  kind  word  would 

say, 

For  Joe  was  simple  an*  stupid,  an*  allus  in  somebody's  way ; 
So  I  s'pose  he  kind  o'  loved  her ;  but  then  that  were  nothing 

you  know, 
For  there  was  n't  a  soul  in  the  village  but  loved  her  better'n  Joe. 

An*  when  Milly  took  down  with  consumption,  or  some  such 

weakness  as  that, 

Joe  took  on  kind  o'  foolish  —  there  was  nothin'  for  him  to  cry  at ; 
An*  he'd  range  the  woods  over  for  hours  for  flowers  to  place 

by  her  bed, 
An*  Milly,  somehow  or  other,  kind  o'  liked  his  dazed  ways, 

they  said. 

But  when  winter  was  come,  she  died,  sir,  an*  I  well  remember 

the  day 

When  we  carried  the  little  coffin  to  the  old  churchyard  away ; 
It  were  so  bitter  cold,  we  were  glad  when  the  grave  were  made, 
An*  when  we  were  done  an*  went  home,  I  suppose  poor  Joe 

must  have  stayed ; 

They  found  him  here  the  next  mornin',  lyin1  close  to  the  grave, 

they  said, 
An*  a  looking  like  he  was  asleep ;  but  then,  of  course,  he  were 

dead. 

I  suppose  he  got  chilled  and  sleepy — an*  how  could  a  body  know 
How  dangerous  that  kind  o'  sleep  is,  as  never  knowed  nothin', 

like  Joe  ? 

So  they  say  that  he  died  broken-hearted ;  but  that  only  shows, 

do  you  see, 

How  easy  for  some  folks  to  fancy  a  thing  that  never  could  be ; 
For  now  you  have  heard  the  story,  you  '11  agree  with  me, 

stranger,  I  know, 
That  a  body  could  never  do  that,  as  were  simple  and  dazed, 

like  Joe  ! 
San  Francisco,  1874.  JAMES  ROANN  REED. 


THE  OUTCAST'S  DREAM. 

FROM  morn  till  noon  the  golden  glow 

Of  bright  September  sunlight  falls  ^ 
On  dewy  glades,  where  fall  flowers  hide 

Behind  the  dull,  dark  lichen  walls. 
From  noon  till  night  the  slanting  rays 

Creep  through  the  tangled  winter  vine, 
Where  berries  fringe  the  bending  sprays, 

Like  crimson  drops  of  rare  old  wine. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO   TELL.  337 

From  morn  till  noon,  from  noon  till  night, 

O'erspreads  the  earth  with  jewelled  robes, 
And  fire-flies  light  the  purplish  dusk 

With  countless  golden  glowing  globes ; 
A  woman  stalks  through  dust  and  heat, 

Until  the  fleece-like  mists  of  night 
Enfold  her  thin  and  ill-clad  form 

In  trailing  robes  of  bridal  white. 

Her  feet  are  bruised  with  jagged  stones,  — 

Her  tender  feet  that  years  ago 
Her  mother's  hands  had  fondly  wrapped 

In  infant  robes  of  downy  snow ; 
Her  pallid  brow,  that  mother's  lips 

Had  kissed  with  mother's  kisses  pure, 
Is  racked  with  pain  that  only  they 

Who  homeless  roam  the  world  endure. 

The  clear,  rich  notes  of  wild  birds  break 

The  slumberous  calm  like  Sabbath  bells, 
And  from  the  brakes  the  thrush's  song 

In  sad,  pathetic  sweetness  swells. 
The  cool  night-air  is  fragrant  with 

The  scents  that  rise  from  dewy  flowers, 
As  by  the  new  moon's  waning  light 

She  counts  the  twilight's  fleeting  hours. 

Her  wild,  sad  eyes  with  wistful  glare 

Count  all  the  landmarks,  one  by  one, 
Until  she  stands  beyond  the  ridgq 

Where  blossoms  catch  the  morning  sun; 
And  where  the  plover  builds  her  nest 

In  meadow  grasses  lush  and  long, 
And  where  in  girlhood's  happy  years 

She  raked  the  hay,  with  mirthful  song. 

The  old  white  stone  beside  the  spring 

Is  there,  as  white  and  smooth  as  when 
She  filled  her  pail  and  mocked  the  caw 

Of  blackbirds  in  the  reedy  glen. 
And  when  the  gates  of  morn  unfold, 

She  knows  the  sunbeams  drifting  down 
Will  steal  through  casements  quaint  and  old, 

And  snow-white  locks  with  glory  crown. 

She  wanders  on  to  where  the  spring 

Is  lost  in  countless  silvery  rills, 
Then  drops  asleep,  her  silvery  head 

On  pillows  fringed  with  daffodils ; 
While  in  her  dream  her  mother  comes 

And  strokes  her  brow  with  soothing  palms 
That  wash  away  the  marks  of  shame, 

And  fill  her  soul  with  restful  calms. 


338  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

She  feels  warm,  quivering  kisses  on  her  face 

(The  dews  that  heaven  kindly  sends), 
And  hears  again  the  dear,  brave  voice 

That  gently  censures  or  commends. 
The  vesper  hymns  they  sang  at  eve, 

The  Sabbath  chants  of  humble  praise, 
Float  through  her  dreams,  sweet  memories  from 

The  deathless  bliss  of  childhood's  days. 

Ah  !  once  again  she  's  young  and  pure ; 

Ah!  once  again  her  sinless  brow 
Is  bound  with  roses  rich  and  red, 

Whose  hearts  with  crimson  beauty  glow; 
She  hears  again  the  subtle  voice 

That  taught  her  love's  most  bitter  pain. 
On  cheek  and  lips  and  wrinkled  brow 

His  kisses  fall  like  summer  rain. 

She  cries  aloud,  her  yearning  hands 

Outstretched  to  meet  each  fond  caress, 
Then  sinks  in  shame  to  hide  her  face 

In  dripping  clumps  of  watercress. 
For  what  has  life  for  such  as  her 

But  tortured  thought,  undying  pain ; 
And  what  are  dreams  but  stray  chords  from 

Some  old  home  song  or  old  love  strain  ? 
Pittsburgh)  1874.  OLIVE  BELL, 


FISHERMAN  JOB. 

WELL,  young  'un,  you  're  mighty  smooth  spoken,  an*  it  all  may 

be  as  you  say, 
That  God  never  interferes  with  us,  but  lets  each  one  go  on  his 

own  way ; 
But  when  heaven  has  silvered  your  locks  with  the  snows  of 

some  eighty  odd  year  — 
As  it  has  mine,  an*  always  in  marcy  —  you  '11  regret  this  wild 

fancy,  I  fear. 

Just  let  me  spin  ye  a  yarn,  sir,  as  happened  a  long  time  agone 
To  me,  an'  if  such  is  all  luck,  why,  I  hope  it  '11  always  hold  on ; 
It 's  now  nearly  threescore  summers  since  this  incident  happened 

to  me,  — 
Just  after  I  'd  married  my  wife,  an*  settled  down  here  by  the  sea. 

For  I  was  a  fisherman  born,  sir,  lovin*  always  the  wild  waves 

to  ride ; 
They're  the  type  of  my  life,  an*  I'm  thinkin'  that  it's  now 

near  the  ebb  o'  the  tide. 
There  were  three  of  us  then  as  were  partners  in  the  trimmest 

an*  snug  little  boat 
As  ever  was  true  to  her  colors,  just  a  bright  little  "  Sunbeam  " 

afloat. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO   TELL.  339 

We  had  had  a  long  run  o*  good  luck,  sir ;  wi*  the  weather  as 
fair  as  could  be, 

An*  the  morrow  were  goin*  again,  when  the  gray  light  first 
dawned  on  the  sea. 

But  before  I  was  fairly  turned  out,  it  seemed  as  I  heard  some- 
thing say, 

"  There  *s  breakers  ahead  o'  ye,  Job  ;  don't  go  on  the  sea,  lad, 
to-day !  " 

At  first  I  felt  kind  o*  scared  like,  but  I  thought 't  was  all  fancy, 

you  see, 
So  I  took  a  good  look  at  the  sky ;  't  was  as  clear  and  as  bright 

as  could  be. 
But  it  still  seemed  to  whisper,  "  Beware ! "  an'  the  breeze  crept 

by  soughin'  an'  slow, 
An*  a  voice,  like  a  wail  for  the  dead,  with  each  gust  seemed 

to  murmur,  "  Don't  go  ! " 

Then  I  got  kind  o*  nettled  to  think  that  my  narves  should 

sarve  me  that  way  ; 
An*  I  says  to  myself,  "  You  're  an  ass,  Job,  but  you  '11  go  for 

all  that,  lad,  this  day  ! " 

So  I  kissed  wife  a  hasty  good-by,  an*  set  off  a-hummin'  a  song, 
Till  the  path  took  a  turn  by  that  cliff  at  whose  foot  the  sand 

stretches  along. 

Then  what  happened  I  never  could  tell ;  but  the  first  I  remem- 
ber, I  know, 

The  cliff  were  a  frownin*  above  me,  an*  I,  stunned  and  bruised, 
down  below, 

An*  my  wife  kneelin'  there  by  my  side,  an*  lookin*  as  frightened 
as  if 

I  were  dead.  Says  she,  "  Job,  were  ye  crazy  ?  Ye  walked  right 
straight  off  of  the  cliff!  " 

I  did  n't  say  much ;  an',  of  course,  my  partners  went  that  day 

alone ; 
An*  I  lay  on  my  bed  kind  o'  happy  to  find,  after  all,  I  'd  not 

gone. 
But  the  strangest  of  all  is  yet  comin' ;  for  that  mornin',  as  fair 

as  could  be, 
Was  followed  ere  noon  by  a  storm  as  was  fairly  terrific  to  see. 

We  waited  in  agony,  knowin'  such  a  sea  the  boat  could  not 

outride ; 
An*  were  thankful  when  even  the  bodies  were  laid  at  our  feet 

by  the  tide. 

It 's  no  use  in  askin'  my  fate,  if  that  mornin'  I  only  had  gone  ; 
An1  if  such  things  all  happen  by  luck,  why,  I  hope  it  '11  always 

hold  on. 

JAMES  ROANN  REED. 


340  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

POOR  LITTLE  JOE. 

PROP  yer  eyes  wide  open,  Joey, 

Fur  I  Ve  brought  you  sumpin'  great. 
Apples  ?     No,  but  something  better  ! 

Don't  you  take  no  int'rest  ?    Wait ! 
Flowers,  Joe,  —  I  knowed  you  'd  like  'em  — 

Ain't  them  scrumptious  ?    Ain't  them  high  ? 
Tears,  my  boy  ?     Wot 's  them  fur,  Joey  ? 

There  —  poor  little  Joe  !  —  don't  cry. 

I  was  skippin'  past  a  winder 

Where  a  bang-up  lady  sot 
All  amongst  a  lot  of  bushes, 

Each  one  climbin'  from  a  pot; 
Every  bush  had  flowers  on  it  — 

Pretty  ?    Mebbe  !     Oh,  no ! 
Wish  you  could  a  seen  'em  growin', 

It  was  sich  a  stunnin'  show. 

Well,  I  thought  of  you,  poor  feller, 

Lyin'  here  so  sick  and  weak, 
Never  knowin'  any  comfort, 

And  I  puts  on  lots  o'  cheek. 
"  Missus,"  says  I,  "  if  you  please,  mum, 

Could  I  ax  you  for  a  rose  ? 
For  my  little  brother,  missus, 

Never  seed  one,  I  suppose." 

Then  I  told  her  all  about  you,  — 

How  I  bringed  yer  up,  poor  Joe  I 
(Lackin'  women-folks  to  do  it) 

Such  a'  imp  you  was,  you  know,— 
Till  yer  got  that  awful  tumble, 

Just  as  I  had  broke  yer  in 
(Hard  work  too)  to  earn  your  livin* 

Blackin'  boots  for  honest  tin. 

How  that  tumble  crippled  of  you, 

So 's  you  could  n't  hyper  much,  — 
Joe,  it  hurted  when  I  seen  you 

Fur  the  first  time  with  yer  crutch. 
"  But,"  I  says,  "  he  's  laid  up  now,  mum, 

'Pears  to  weaken  every  day." 
Joe,  she  up  and  went  to  cuttin',  — 

That 's  the  how  of  this  bokay. 

Say,  it  seems  to  me,  ole  feller, 
You  is  quite  yourself  to-night; 

Kind  o'  chirk ;  it 's  been  a  fortnight 
Since  yer  eyes  has  been  so  bright. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO  TELL.        341 

Better  ?     Well,  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it. 

Yes,  they're  mighty  pretty,  Joe. 
Smellin'  of  'em  's  made  you  happy  ! 

Well,  I  thought  it  would,  you  know. 

Never  seed  the  country,  did  you  ? 

Flowers  growin'  everywhere ! 
Sometime,  when  you  're  better,  Joey, 

Mebbe  I  kin  take  you  there. 
Flowers  in  heaven  ?     'M  —  I  s'pose  so  ; 

Don't  know  much  about  it,  though ; 
Ain't  as  fly  as  what  I  might  be 

On  them  topics,  little  Joe. 

But  I  've  heard  it  hinted,  somewheres, 

That  in  heaven's  golden  gates 
Things  is  everlastin'  cheerful,  — 

B'lieve  that 's  wot  the  Bible  states. 
Likewise,  there  folks  don't  get  hungry ; 

So  good  people  when  they  dies 
Finds  themselves  well  fixed  forever  — 

Joe,  my  boy,  wot  ails  yer  eyes  ? 

Thought  they  looked  a  little  sing'ler. 

Oh,  no  !     Don't  you  have  no  fear  ; 
Heaven  was  made  for  such  as  you  is  — 

Joe,  what  makes  you  look  so  queer  ? 
Here  —  wake  up  !     Oh,  don't  look  that  way  I 

Joe  !    My  boy  1   Hold  up  your  head  ! 
Here  's  your  flowers  —  you  dropped  'em,  Joey  — 

Oh,  my  God !  can  Joe  be  dead  ? 


THE  CURTAIN  FALLS. 

CLOWNS  are  capering  in  motley,  drums  are  beating,  trumpets 
blown, 

Laughing  crowds  block  up  the  gangway  —  husky  is  the  show- 
man's tone. 

Rapidly  the  booth  is  filling,  and  the  rustics  wait  to  hear 

A  cadaverous  strolling  player  who  will  presently  appear. 

Once  his  voice  in  tones  of  thunder  shook  the  crazy  caravan ; 
Now  he  entered  pale  and  gasping,  and  no  sentence  glibly  ran ; 
Sad  and  vacant  were  his  glances,  and  his  memory  seemed  to 

fail, 
While  with  feeble  effort  striving  to  recall  Othello's  tale. 


342  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

O'er  Iris  wasted  form  the  spangles  glittered  in  the  lamp's  dull 

ray; 

Ebon  tresses,  long  and  curling,  covered  scanty  locks  of  gray  ; 
Rouge  and  powder  hid  the  traces  of  the  stern,  relentless  years, 
As  gay  flowers  hide  a  ruin,  tottering  ere  it  disappears. 

Not  with  age,  serenely  ebbing  to  the  everlasting  sea, 
Calmly  dreaming  of  past  pleasures,  or  of  mysteries  to  be  ; 
Nay,  the  melancholy  stroller  kept  his  onward  pilgrimage, 
Until  Death,  the  pallid  prompter,  called  him  from  life's  dusky 
stage. 

Lofty  hopes  and  aspirations  all  had  faded  with  his  youth, 
And  for  daily  bread  he  acted  now  in  yonder  canvas  booth  ; 
Yet  there  flashed  a  fire  heroic  from  his  visage  worn  and  grave ; 
Deeper,  fuller  came  his  accents  —  Man  was  master,  Time  was 
slave. 

And  again  with  force  and  feeling  he  portrayed  the  loving  Moor ; 
Told  the  story  to  the  Senate  —  told  the  pangs  which  they  endure 
Who  are  torn  with  jealous  passion,  —  while  delightedly  the 

crowd 
Watched  the  stroller's  changing  aspect,  and  applauded  him 

aloud. 

Was  it  but  a  trick  of  acting  to  depict  a  frenzied  mood, 
That  there  came  a  sudden  silence,  and  Othello  voiceless  stood  ? 
Ah, 'twas  all  Othello's  story  Nature  left  the  power  to  tell  — 
7T  was  his  own  sad  drama  ending  as  the  dark-green  curtain  fell. 

While  they  shouted  for  the  stroller,  and  the  hero's  fate  would 

see, 

He  had  made  his  final  exit  —  joined  a  higher  company. 
With  no  loving  kiss  at  parting,  with  no  friend  to  press  his  hand, 
The  invisible  scene-shifter  had  unveiled  the  spirit-land. 

Huskier  still   became  the  showman  as  he  forward  came  and 

bowed, 

Vaguely  muttering  excuses  to  appease  the  gaping  crowd ; 
Then  he  knelt  beside  the  stroller,  but  his  words  were  lost  on 

air  — 
Nevermore  uprose  the  curtain  on  the  figure  lying  there. 

One  brief  hour  their  cares  forgetting,  his  old  comrades  of  the 

show 
Stood  around  his  grave  in  silence,  and  some  honest  tears  did 

flow. 
Then  the  booth  again  was  opened,  crammed  with  many  a  rustic 

boor, 

And  another  strolling  player  told  the  story  of  the  Moor. 
Tinsley's  Magazine.  JOSEPH  VEREY. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO  TELL.  343 


IN   BAY  CHALEUR. 

THE  birds  no  more  in  dooryard  trees  are  singing, 

The  purple  swallows  all  have  left  the  eaves, 
And  'thwart  the  sky  the  broken  clouds  are  winging, 

Shading  the  land-slopes,  bright  with  harvest-sheaves. 
Old  Hannah  waits  her  sailor-boy  returning, 

His  fair  young  brow  to-day  she  hopes  to  bless ; 
But  sees  the  red  sun  on  the  hill-tops  burning, 

The  flying  cloud,  the  wild,  cold  gloominess 
OfBayChaleur. 

The  silver  crown  has  touched  her  forehead  lightly 

Since  last  his  hand  was  laid  upon  her  hair ; 
The  golden  crown  will  touch  her  brow  more  brightly 

Ere  he  again  shall  print  his  kisses  there. 
The  night  comes  on,  the  village  sinks  in  slumber, 

The  rounded  moon  illumes  the  water's  rim  ; 
Each  evening  hour  she  hears  the  old  clock  number, 

But  brings  the  evening  no  return  of  him 
To  Bay  Chaleur. 

She  heard  low  murmurs  in  the  sandy  reaches, 

And  knew  the  sea  no  longer  was  at  rest ; 
The  black  clouds  scudded  o'er  the  level  beaches, 

And  barred  the  moonlight  on  the  ocean's  breast. 
The  night  wore  on,  and  grew  the  shadows  longer ; 

Far  in  the  distance  of  the  silvered  seas 
Tides  lapped  the  rocks,  and  blew  the  night-wind  stronger, 

Bending  the  pines  and  stripping  bare  the  trees 
Round  Bay  Chaleur. 

Then  Alice  came ;  on  Hannah's  breast  reclining, 

She  heard  the  leaves  swift  whistling  in  the  breeze, 
And,  through  the  lattice,  saw  the  moon  declining 

In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  rainy  seas. 
The  fire  burned  warm, —  upon  the  hearth  was  sleeping 

The  faithful  dog  that  used  his  steps  to  follow. 
"  *T  is  almost  midnight,"  whispered  Alice,  weeping, 

While  blew  the  winds  more  drearily  and  hollow 
O'er  Bay  Chaleur. 

No  organ  stands  beneath  a  bust  of  Pallas, 

No  painted  Marius  to  the  ruin  clings, 
No  Ganymede,  borne  up  from  airy  Hellas, 

Looks  through  the  darkness  'neath  the  eagle's  wings. 
But  the  sweet  pictures  from  the  shadowed  ceiling 

Reflect  the  firelight  near  old  Hannah's  chair,— 
One  a  fair  girl,  with  features  full  of  feeling, 

And  one  a  boy,  a  fisher,  young  and  fair, 
Of  Bay  Chaleur. 


344  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

The  boy  returns  with  humble  presents  laden, 

For  on  the  morrow  is  his  wedding  morn ; 
To  the  old  church  he  hopes  to  lead  the  maiden 

Whose  head  now  rests  his  mother's  breast  upon. 
Now  Hannah  droops  her  cheek,  the  maiden  presses,  — 

"  He  will  return  when  come  the  morning  hours, 
And  he  will  greet  thee  with  his  fond  caresses, 

And  thou  shalt  meet  him  diademed  with  flowers." 
Sweet  Bay  Chaleur  1 

Gray  was  the  morning,  but  a  light  more  tender 

Parted  at  last  the  storm-cloud's  lingering  glooms; 
The  sun  looked  forth  in  mellowness  and  splendor, 

Drying  the  leaves  amid  the  gentian  blooms. 
And  wrecks  came  drifting  to  the  sandy  reaches, 

As  inward  rolled  the  tide  with  sullen  roar; 
The  fishers  wandered  o'er  the  sea-washed  beaches, 

And  gathered  fragments  as  they  reached  the  shore 
Of  Bay  Chaleur. 

Then  Alice,  with  the  village  maidens  roaming 

Upon  the  beaches  where  the  breakers  swirl, 
Espied  a  fragment  'mid  the  waters  foaming, 

And  found  a  casket  overlaid  with  pearl. 
It  was  a  treasure.     "  Happy  he  who  claimed  it," 

A  maiden  said,  "  't  is  worthy  of  a  bride." 
Another  maid  "the  ocean's  dowry"  named  it ; 

But  gently  Alice,  weeping,  turned  aside,  — 
Sad  Bay  Chaleur !  — 

And  went  to  Hannah  with  the  new-found  treasure, 

And  stood  again  beside  the  old  arm-chair; 
The  maids  stood  round  her,  radiant  with  pleasure, 

And  playful  wove  the  gentians  in  her  hair. 
Then  Hannah  said,  her  feelings  ill  dissembling, 

"  Some  sailor-lad  this  treasure  once  possessed ; 
And  now,  perhaps,"  she  added,  pale  and  trembling, 

"  His  form  lies  sleeping  'neath  the  ocean's  breast, 
In  Bay  Chaleur." 

Now  on  her  knee  the  opened  box  she  places, — 

Her  trembling  hand  falls  helpless  on  her  breast ; 
Into  her  face  look  up  two  pictured  faces, 

The  faces  that  her  sailor-boy  loved  best. 
One  picture  bears  the  written  words,  "My  mother,"  — 

Old  Hannah  drops  her  wrinkled  cheek  in  pain ; 
"  Alice,"  sweet  name,  is  writ  beneath  the  other  — 

Old  Hannah's  tears  fall  over  it  like  rain. 
Dark  Bay  Chaleur  I 

The  spring  will  come,  the  purple  swallows  bringing, 
The  green  leaves  glitter  where  the  gold  leaves  fell ; 

But  nevermore  the  time  of  flowers  and  singing 
Will  hope  revive  in  her  poor  heart  to  dwell. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO  TELL.        345 

Life  ne'er  had  brought  to  her  so  dark  a  chalice, 

But  from  her  lips  escaped  no  bitter  moan ; 
They,  'mid  the  gentians,  made  the  grave  of  Alice, 
And  Hannah  lives  in  her  old  cot  alone, 
By  Bay  Chaleur. 

HEZEKIAH  BUTTERWORTH. 


THE  NEW    MAGDALEN. 

The  Memphis  Appeal,  a  short  time  ago,  told  the  story  of  a  fallen  woman 
of  that  place,  Mollie  Cooke  by  name,  who,  owning  a  gilded  palace  of  sin, 
turned  it  into  a  hospital  for  the  yellow-fever  sufferers,  and  with  her  hands 
nursed  the  sick  and  dying  back  to  life  again,  until  at  last,  wearied  and  ex- 


had  —  her  life  —  to  redeem  the  errors  of  the  past 


THE  yellow  death  came  stealing 

Up  from  the  river's  edge  ; 
Up  from  the  dark,  dark  morass, 

With  its  tangled  fringe  of  sedge  ; 
Up  from  the  misty  bayous, 

On  the  south  wind's  tainted  breath,  — - 
Till  the  skies  grew  dark  at  Memphis 

With  the  shadowy  wings  of  death. 

The  air  grew  dense  and  silent, 

The  wild  bird  ceased  its  song, 
And  strong  men  cried  in  anguish, 

"  How  long,  O  God,  how  long  ? " 
But  the  skies  gave  back  no  answer, 

Death's  pitiless  scythe  still  swung, 
And  the  harvest  the  reaper  gathered 

Was  a  harvest  of  old  and  young. 

The  babe  in  the  cradle  sleeping, 

In  the  flush  of  morning  light, 
With  a  smile  of  dimpled  features, 

In  a  coffin  slept  at  night ; 
And  the  man  who  knelt  at  evening, 

Thanking  God  for  the  strength  he  gave, 
Lay  down  to  sleep  at  dawning 

In  the  cold  and  narrow  grave. 

The  pavements  only  echoed 

To  the  wheels  of  the  passing  hearse, 
As  it  bore  to  the  silent  city 

The  victims  of  the  curse  ; 
And  the  voice  of  the  stricken  mourners, 

Who  heard  not  the  rustling  wing, 
But  saw  on  the  sleeper's  forehead 

The  seal  of  the  saffron  king. 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Then  out  from  the  gilded  palace 

Of  sorrow,  and  sin,  and  shame, 
Clad  in  the  robes  of  scarlet, 

A  fallen  woman  came ; 
And  the  song  of  the  noisy  revel 

Gave  place  in  its  stately  hall 
To  a  prayer  for  the  sick  and  dying, 

And  a  woman's  soft  footfall. 

Back  from  death's  dark  portal, 

From  the  verge  of  an  unseen  land, 
Came  many  a  wandering  mortal 

At  the  touch  of  that  woman's  hand ; 
Till  the  fever,  wrathful,  sullen, 

Touched  her  with  his  tainted  breath, 
And  asleep,  in  snowy  garment, 

She  lay  in  the  arms  of  death. 

Oh,  girl  with  the  jewelled  fingers, 

Oh,  maid  with  the  laces  rare, 
Will  that  woman's  grand  action 

Count  less  than  thy  studied  prayer  ? 
Have  the  angels,  looking  earthward, 

A  love  more  tender  seen 
Than  that  of  this  fallen  woman,  — 

The  true  new  Magdalen  ? 

R.  L.  GARY,  JR 


FOR  LIFE  AND   DEATH. 

"  NOUGHT  to  be  done,"  —  eh  ?    It  was  that  he  said,  — 

The  doctor,  as  you  stopped  him  at  the  door  ? 
Nay,  never  try  to  smile  and  shake  thy  head, 

I  could  ha'  told  thee  just  as  well  afore. 
I  have  n't  lived  these  thirty  year  to  want 

Parsons  or  women  telling  what  is  nigh 
When  the  pulse  hovers,  and  the  breath  is  scant, 

And  all  grows  dim  before  the  glazing  eye. 

I  felt  that  something  gave,  here,  at  my  heart, 

In  that  last  tussle  down  there  on  the  Scar; 
Nay,  never  cry,  fond  lassie  as  thou  art, 

Thou  wilt  do  fine  without  me  —  better  far. 
Thou  'st  been  a  good  and  patient  wife  to  me 

Sin'  that  spring  day,  last  year,  when  we  were  wed ; 
I  never  meant  so  cold  and  strange  to  be  ; 

Come,  and  I  '11  tell  thee.     Sit  here  by  my  bed. 

So,  where  the  sunshine  rests  upon  thy  hair, 
It  shows  almost  as  smooth  and  bright  as  hers 

The  girl  I  wooed  in  Dunkerque,  over  there  — 

Fie,  how  the  thought  the  slackening  life-blood  stirs ! 


WITH  A  STORY  TO   TELL.  347 

Oh,  wild  black  eyes,  so  quick  to  flash  and  fill ! 

Oh,  rich  red  lips,  so  ripe  for  kiss  and  vow  I 
Did  not  your  spell  work  me  enow  of  ill, 

That  ye  must  haunt  and  vex  me  even  now  ? 

I  swore,  as  we  drove  out  into  the  gale, 

And  staggering  down  mid-channel  went  the  boat, 
Never  at  Dunkerque  pier  to  furl  my  sail, 

While  I  and  the  old  "  Lion  "  kept  afloat,  — 
The  pier  where  she  and  her  French  lover  laughed 

At  the  poor,  trusting  fool,  who  had  his  due  ; 
Quick  though  his  hand  flew  to  his  keen  knife's  haft, 

The  English  fist  was  yet  more  quick  and  true. 

She  and  her  beaten  sweetheart,  do  they  prate 

Yet  of  her  triumph  ?     Let  them,  an  they  please. 
I  shall  know  nought  about  it,  lying  straight 

Up  on  the  headland,  'neath  the  tall  fir-trees. 
I  wish  I  could  ha'  been  content,  my  lass, 

With  thee,  and  thy  blue  eyes  and  quiet  ways  : 
Thou  hast  thy  bairn,  and  as  the  calm  years  pass 

Thou  wilt  forget  thy  stormy  April  days. 

Thou  'rt  young  and  bonnie  still,  my  wench.     Thou  'It  make 

A  happy  wife  yet.     Choose  some  quiet  chap, 
Who  '11  love  the  little  'un  for  thy  sweet  sake, 

And  bear  thee  to  some  inland  home,  mayhap. 
We  're  rough  and  stern,  we  on  the  seaboard  bred, 

And  can't  forget,  or  smooth  a  rankling  wound. 
Come  close  ;  there  's  just  one  thing  left  to  be  said, 

Before  I  'm  dumb  forever,  and  under  ground. 

Last  night  they  watched  the  life-boat  driven  back, 

The  rocket  battling  vainly  with  the  blast, 
While  the  good  bark,  amid  the  roar  and  wrack, 

Drove  headlong  —  struck,  and  lay  there,  hard  and  fast. 
They  neither  saw  nor  heeded,  as  the  flash 

Of  cold  blue  fire  lit  all,  above,  below, 
The  French  flag  flying  o'er  the  whirl  and  crash, 

"  Louise,  Dunkerque,"  the  letters  on  her  prow. 

I  saw,  plunged,  fought,  and  reached  the  sinking  bark, 

The  old,  hot  poison  fierce  in  every  vein, 
Seized  on  two  sailors,  shrieking  in  the  dark, 

Bore  them  to  land,  and  turned  to  swim  again. 
Clasping  the  rigging  yet  one  man  I  found  ; 

I  caught  him,  struggled  on ;  the  beach  was  near,  — 
"  Louise,"  he  gasped,  and,  'mid  the  roar  around, 

I  knew  the  voice  last  heard  on  Dunkerque  pier. 

The  murderer's  lust  surged  to  the  throbbing  heart, 
The  murderer's  cunning  loosed  the  saving  hand ; 

'T  was  but  to  let  him  go  ;  I  'd  done  my  part  — 

Praised  and  avenged!     Why,  thus  'twere  well  to  land 


348  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

But  she  —  No  cloud  on  her  bright  life  should  rest 
An  I  could  ward  it ;  love  and  hate  at  strife 

A  moment,  then,  snatched  from  the  breaker's  crest, 
I  dragged  him,  stunned  and  bleeding,  back  to  life. 

Somehow  I  hurt  myself,  and  so  it's  over, 

And  better  so  for  all.     Thou  'It  rear  the  lad 
To  make  some  Yorkshire  lass  an  honest  lover, 

Nor  tell  him  all  the  wrong  his  mother  had  ; 
And  sometimes,  —  for  thou  'rt  kind,  —  when  stars  are  out, 

In  the  green  country,  where  no  tempests  blow, 
Thou  'It  say,  "  Thy  father  had  his  faults,  no  doubt, 

But  still  he  died  to  save  his  bitterest  foe.*' 


TO-MORROW. 

THE  setting  sun,  with  dying  beams, 
Had  waked  the  purple  hill  to  fire, 
And  citadel  and  dome  and  spire 

Were  gilded  by  the  far-off  gleams ; 

And  in  and  out  dark  pine-trees  crept 
Full  many  a  slender  thread  of  gold ; 

Gold  shafts  athwart  the  river  swept, 
And  kissed  it  as  it  onward  rolled : 

And  sunlight  lingered,  loath  to  go  ; 

Ah,  well !  it  causeth  sorrow 

To  part  from  those  we  love  below ; 

And  yet  the  sun  as  bright  shall  glow 
To-morrow. 

Two  hearts  have  met  to  say  farewell 

At  even  when  the  sun  went  down  ; 

Each  life-sound  from  the  busy  town 
Smote  sadly  as  a  passing  bell. 
One  whispered,  "  Parting  is  sweet  pain  — - 

At  morn  and  eve  returns  the  tide  ;  " 
"  Nay,  parting  rends  the  heart  in  twain." 

And  still  they  linger  side  by  side  ; 
And  still  they  linger,  loath  to  go  ; 
Ah,  well !  it  causeth  sorrow 
To  part  from  those  we  love  below  — 
For  shall  we  ever  meet  or  no, 

To-morrow? 


DRIFTED   OUT  TO   SEA. 

Two  little  ones,  grown  tired  of  play, 
Roamed  by  the  sea,  one  summer  day, 
Watching  the  great  waves  come  and  go, 
Prattling,  as  children  will,  you  know, 
Of  dolls  and  marbles,  kites  and  strings ; 
Sometimes  hinting  at  graver  things. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO   TELL.  349 

At  last  they  spied  within  their  reach 
An  old  boat  cast  upon  the  beach  ; 
Helter-skelter,  with  merry  din, 
Over  its  sides  they  scrambled  in, — 
Ben,  with  his  tangled,  nut-brown  hair, 
Bess,  with  her  sweet  face  flushed  and  fair. 

Rolling  in  from  the  briny  deep, 
Nearer,  nearer,  the  great  waves  creep, 
Higher,  higher,  upon  the  sands, 
Reaching  out  with  their  giant  hands, 
Grasping  the  boat  in  boisterous  glee, 
Tossing  it  up  and  out  to  sea. 

The  sun  went  down,  'mid  clouds  of  gold  ; 
Night  came,  with  footsteps  damp  and  cold ; 
Day  dawned ;  the  hours  crept  slowly  by ; 
And  now  across  the  sunny  sky 
A  black  cloud  stretches  far  away, 
And  shuts  the  golden  gates  of  day. 

A  storm  comes  on,  with  flash  and  roar, 
While  all  the  sky  is  shrouded  o'er  ; 
The  great  waves,  rolling  from  the  west, 
Bring  night  and  darkness  on  their  breast. 
Still  floats  the  boat  through  driving  storm, 
Protected  by  God's  powerful  arm. 

The  home-bound  vessel,  "  Sea-bird,"  lies 
In  ready  trim,  'twixt  sea  and  skies  : 
Her  captain  paces,  restless  now, 
A  troubled  look  upon  his  brow, 
While  all  his  nerves  with  terror  thrill,  — 
The  shadow  of  some  coming  ill. 

The  mate  comes  up  to  where  he  stands, 
And  grasps  his  arm  with  eager  hands. 
"  A  boat  has  just  swept  past,"  says  he, 
"  Bearing  two  children  out  to  sea  ; 
'T  is  dangerous  now  to  put  about, 
Yet  they  cannot  be  saved  without." 

"  Nought  but  their  safety  will  suffice ! 
They  must  be  saved !  "  the  captain  cries. 
"  By  every  thought  that's  just  and  right, 
By  lips  I  hoped  to  kiss  to-night, 
I  '11  peril  vessel,  life,  and  men, 
And  God  will  not  forsake  us  then." 

With  anxious  faces,  one  and  all, 
Each  man  responded  to  the  call ; 


350  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  when  at  last,  through  driving  storm, 
They  lifted  up  each  little  form, 
The  captain  started,  with  a  groan  ; 
"  My  God  is  good,  they  are  my  own ! " 

ROSA  HARTWICK  THORPE 
(Author  of"  Curfew  Shall  Not  Ring  To-night "). 


TWO. 

WE  two  will  stand  in  the  shadow  here, 

To  see  the  bride  as  she  passes  by; 
Ring  soft  and  low,  ring  loud  and  clear, 

Ye  chiming  bells  that  swing  on  high ! 
Look !  look !  she  comes  !     The  air  grows  sweet 

With  the  fragrant  breath  of  the  orange-blooms, 
And  the  flowers  she  treads  beneath  her  feet 

Die  in  a  flood  of  rare  perfumes  ! 

She  comes  !  she  comes !     The  happy  bells 

With  their  joyous  clamor  fill  the  air, 
While  the  great  organ  dies  and  swells, 

Soaring  to  trembling  heights  of  prayer ! 
Oh!  rare  are  her  robes  of  silken  sheen, 

And  the  pearls  that  gleam  on  her  bosom's  snow ; 
But  rarer  the  grace  of  her  royal  mien, 

Her  hair's  fine  gold,  and  her  cheek's  young  glow. 

Dainty  and  fair  as  a  folded  rose, 

Fresh  as  a  violet  dewy  sweet, 
Chaste  as  a  lily,  she  hardly  knows 

That  there  are  rough  paths  for  other  feet 
For  Love  hath  shielded  her ;  Honor  kept 

Watch  beside  her  night  and  day; 
And  Evil  out  from  her  sight  hath  crept, 

Trailing  its  slow  length  far  away. 

Now  in  her  perfect  womanhood, 

In  all  the  wealth  of  her  matchless  charms, 
Lovely  and  beautiful,  pure  and  good, 

She  yields  herself  to  her  lover's  arms. 
Hark  !  how  the  jubilant  voices  ring  1 

Lo !  as  we  stand  in  the  shadow  here, 
While  far  above  us  the  gay  bells  swing, 

I  catch  the  gleam  of  a  happy  tear  I 

The  pageant  is  over.     Come  with  me 
To  the  other  side  of  the  town,  I  pray, 

Ere  the  sun  goes  down  in  the  darkening  sea, 
And  night  falls  around  us,  chill  and  gray. 


WITH  A  STORY  TO   TELL.  35  1 

In  the  dim  church  porch  an  hour  ago 
We  waited  the  bride's  fair  face  to  see ; 

Now  life  has  a  sadder  sight  to  show, 
A  darker  picture  for  you  and  me. 

No  need  to  seek  for  the  shadow  here, 

There  are  shadows  lurking  everywhere ; 
These  streets  in  the  brightest  days  are  drear, 

And  black  as  the  blackness  of  despair. 
But  this  is  the  house.     Take  heed,  my  friend, 

The  stairs  are  rotten,  the  way  is  dim ; 
And  up  the  flights,  as  we  still  ascend, 

Creep,  stealthily,  phantoms  dark  and  grim. 

Enter  this  chamber.     Day  by  day, 

Alone  in  this  chill  and  ghostly  room, 
A  child  —  a  woman  —  which  is  it,  pray?  — 

Despairingly  waits  for  the  hour  of  doom ! 
Ah !  as  she  wrings  her  hands  so  pale, 

No  gleam  of  a  wedding-ring  you  see  ; 
There  's  nothing  to  tell.     You  know  the  tale  — 

God  help  her  now  in  her  misery  1 

I  dare  not  judge  her.     I  only  know 

That  love  was  to  her  a  sin  and  a  snare, 
While  to  the  bride  of  an  hour  ago 

It  brought  all  blessings  its  hands  could  bear! 
I  only  know  that  to  one  it  came 

Laden  with  honor  and  joy  and  peace ; 
Its  gifts  to  the  other  were  woe  and  shame, 

And  a  burning  pain  that  shall  never  cease. 

I  only  know  that  the  soul  of  one 

Has  been  a  pearl  in  a  golden  case ; 
That  of  the  other  a  pebble  thrown 

Idly  down  in  a  wayside  place, 
Where  all  day  long  strange  footsteps  trod, 

And  the  bold,  bright  sun  drank  up  the  dew ! 
Yet  both  were  women.     O  righteous  God, 

Thou  only  canst  judge  between  the  two  1 


THE   COURT  OF  BERLIN. 

KING  Frederick,  of  Prussia,  grew  nervous  and  ill 
When  pacing  his  chamber  one  day, 

Because  of  the  sound  of  a  crazy  old  mill 
That  clattered  so  over  the  way. 


3^2  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"  Ho,  miller  !  "  cried  he,  "  what  sum  shall  you  take 

In  lieu  of  that  wretched  old  shell  ? 
It  angers  my  brain  and  it  keeps  me  awake." 

Said  the  miller,  "  I  want  not  to  sell." 

"  But  you  must,"  said  the  king,  in  a  passion  for  once. 

"  But  I  won't,"  said  the  man,  in  a  heat. 
"  Gods  1  this  to  my  face  ?     Ye  are  daft,  or  a  dunce  — 

We  can  raze  your  old  mill  with  the  street." 

"  Ay,  true,  my  good  sire,  if  such  be  your  mood," 

Then  answered  the  man  with  a  grin ; 
"  But  never  you  '11  move  it  the  tenth  of  a  rood 

As  long  as  a  court 's  in  Berlin." 

"  Good,  good,"  said  the  king,  —  for  the  answer  was  grand, 

As  opposing  the  Law  to  the  Crown,  — 
"  We  bow  to  the  court,  and  the  mill  shall  stand, 

Though  even  the  palace  come  down." 

Frankfort  Yeoman. 


PART  XII 
fpatttng  MI& 


»3 


Why,  why  repine,  my  friend. 

At  pleasures  stipt  away? 
Some  the  stern  Fates  "will  never  lend, 

And  all  refuse  to  stay. 

I  see  the  rainbow  in  the  sky, 

The  dew  upon  the  grass,  — 
/  see  them,  and  I  ask  not  why 

They  glimmer  or  they  pass. 

With  folded  arms  I  linger  not 

To  call  them  back  ;  'twere  vain  ; 
In  this  or  in  some  other  spot 

I  know  they '//  shine  again. 

WALTER  S.  LANDOR. 


PART  XII. 

parting  anti 

"  GOOD-BY." 

WE  say  it  for  an  hour  or  for  years ; 
We  say  it  smiling,  say  it  choked  with  tears; 
We  say  it  coldly,  say  it  with  a  kiss  ; 
And  yet  we  have  no  other  word  than  this,  — 
"  Good-by." 

We  have  no  dearer  word  for  our  heart's  friend, 
For  him  who  journeys  to  the  world's  far  end, 
And  scars  our  soul  with  going  ;  thus  we  say, 
As  unto  him  who  steps  but  o'er  the  way,  — 
"  Good-by." 

Alike  to  those  we  love  and  those  we  hate, 
We  say  no  more  in  parting.     At  life's  gate, 
To  him  who  passes  out  beyond  earth's  sight, 
We  cry,  as  to  the  wanderer  for  a  night,— 
"  Good-by." 

GRACE  DENIO  LITCHFIELD. 

PARTING. 

IF  thou  dost  bid  thy  friend  farewell, 

But  for  one  night  though  that  farewell  may  be, 

Press  thou  his  hand  in  thine. 

How  canst  thou  tell  how  far  from  thee 

Fate  or  caprice  may  lead  his  steps  ere  that  to-morrow  comes  ? 

Men  have  been  known  to  lightly  turn  the  corner  of  a  street, 

And  days  have  grown  to  months,  and  months  to  lagging  years, 

Ere  they  have  looked  in  loving  eyes  again. 

Parting,  at  best,  is  underlaid 

With  tears  and  pain. 


356  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Therefore,  lest  sudden  death  should  come  between, 

Or  time,  or  distance,  clasp  with  pressure  firm 

The  hand  of  him  who  goeth  forth ; 

Unseen,  Fate  goeth  too. 

Yes,  find  thou  always  time  to  say  some  earnest  word 

Between  the  idle  talk, 

Lest  with  thee  henceforth, 

Night  and  day,  regret  should  walk. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE 


MY   DAUGHTER  LOUISE. 

IN  the  light  of  the  moon,  by  the  side  of  the  water, 

My  seat  on  the  sand  and  her  seat  on  my  knees, 
We  watch  the  bright  billows,  do  I  and  my  daughter, 

My  sweet  little  daughter  Louise. 
We  wonder  what  city  the  pathway  of  glory 

That  broadens  away  to  the  limitless  west 
Leads  up  to  —  she  minds  me  of  some  pretty  story 

And  says  —  "  To  the  city  that  mortals  love  best." 
Then  I  say,  "  It  must  lead  to  the  far-away  city, 

The  beautiful  city  of  rest/1 

In  the  light  of  the  moon,  by  the  side  of  the  water, 

Stand  two  in  the  shadow  of  whispering  trees, 
And  one  loves  my  daughter,  my  beautiful  daughter, 

My  womanly  daughter  Louise. 
She  steps  to  the  boat  with  a  touch  of  his  fingers, 

And  out  on  the  diamonded  pathway  they  move. 
The  shallop  is  lost  in  the  distance ;  it  lingers, 

It  waits,  but  I  know  that  its  coming  will  prove 
That  it  went  to  the  walls  of  the  beautiful  city 

The  magical  city  of  love. 

In  the  light  of  the  moon,  by  the  side  of  the  water, 

I  wait  for  her  coming  from  over  the  seas ; 
I  wait  but  to  welcome  the  dust  of  my  daughter, 

To  weep  for  my  daughter  Louise. 
The  path,  as  of  old,  reaching  out  in  its  splendor, 

Gleams  bright,  like  a  way  that  an  angel  has  trod ; 
I  kiss  the  cold  burden  its  billows  surrender, 

Sweet  clay  to  lie  under  the  pitiful  sod ; 
But  she  rests,  at  the  end  of  the  path,  in  the  city, 

"  Whose  builder  and  maker  is  God." 

HOMER  GREENE. 


ONLY. 

AND  this  is  the  end  of  it  all!  it  rounds  the  year's  completeness ; 
Only  a  walk  to  the  stile,  through  fields  afoam  with  sweetness ; 
Only  the  sunset  light,  purple  and  red  on  the  river, 
And  a  lingering,  low  good-night,  that  means  good-by  forever. 


PARTING  AND  ABSENCE.  357 

So  be  it !  and  God  be  with  you !    It  had  been  perhaps  more 

kind, 
Had  you  sooner  (pardon  the  word)  been  sure  of  knowing  your 

mind. 
We  can  bear  so  much  in  youth  —  who  cares  for  a  swift,  sharp 

pain  ? 
And  the  two-edged  sword  of  truth  cuts  deep,  but  it  leaves  no 

stain. 

I  shall  just  go  back  to  my  work  —  my  little  household  cares, 
That  never  make  any  show.     By  time,  perhaps  in  my  prayers, 
I  may  think  of  you  !     For  the  rest,  on  this  way  we  've  trodden 

together 
My  foot  shall  fall  as  lightly  as  if  my  heart  were  a  feather, 

And  not  a  woman's  heart,  strong  to  have  and  to  keep, 
Patient  when  children  cry,  soft  to  lull  them  to  sleep, 
Hiding  its  secrets  close,  glad  when  another's  hand 
Finds  for  itself  a  gem  where  hers  found  only  sand. 

Good-by  I    The  year  has  been  bright.    As  oft  as  the  blossoms 

come, 

The  peach  with  its  waxen  pink,  the  waving  snow  of  the  plum, 
I  shall  think  how  I  used  to  watch,  so  happy  to  see  you  pass, 
I  could  almost  kiss  the  print  of  your  foot  on  the  dewy  grass. 

I  am  not  ashamed  of  my  love  !    Yet  I  would  not  have  yours 

now, 

Though  you  laid  it  down  at  my  feet ;  I  could  not  stoop  so  low. 
A  love  is  but  half  a  love  that  contents  itself  with  less 
Than  love's  utmost  faith  and  truth  and  unwavering  tenderness. 

Only  this  walk  to  the  stile  ;  this  parting  word  by  the  river, 

That  flows  so  quiet  and  cold,  ebbing  and  flowing  forever. 

"  Good-by ! "    Let  me  wait  to  hear  the  last,  last  sound  of  his 

feet! 
Ah  me !  but  I  think  in  this  life  of  ours  the  bitter  outweighs  the 

sweet. 
The  Argosy. 


BEFORE   SAILING. 

LEAN  closer,  darling,  let  thy  tender  heart 

Beat  against  mine  that  aches  with  heavy  woe ; 
Drop  thy  quick  woman's  tears  to  soothe  thy  smart. 

Ah  me !  that  I  could  ease  my  sorrow  so  1 
But  man  must  work,  sweetheart,  and  women  weep, 

So  says  the  song,  so  runs  the  world's  behest ; 
Yet  time  will  pass,  and  tender  comfort  creep 

With  hope  in  company  unto  thy  breast. 
Now,  ere  we  part,  while  yet  on  lip  and  cheek 

Close  kisses  linger,  clinging,  passionate, 


358  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

There  is  a  farewell  word  love  fain  would  speak, 

A  tender  thought  love  labors  to  translate 
In  earnest  words,  whose  memory  through  the  years 
Shall  calm  thy  soul  and  dry  thy  dropping  tears. 

If  in  thy  garden,  when  the  roses  blow, 

Or  by  the  shelter  of  thine  evening  fire, 
In  any  winter  gloom  or  summer  glow, 

Thy  soul  floats  seaward  with  a  fond  desire 
(Fonder  and  stronger  than  thy  tender  use), 

Think  thou,  "  One  longs  for  me  across  the  foam ; " 
And  if,  sweet-falling  like  the  evening  dews, 

A  special  peace  enfolds  that  heart  and  home, 
Then  say  thou,  dear,  with  softly  bated  breath, 

"  In  some  lone  wilderness  beyond  the  sea, 
Whether  in  light  of  life,  or  gloom  of  death, 

My  lover's  spirit  speaks  to  God  for  me  1 " 
Kiss  me,  beloved,  without  doubt  or  dread ; 
We  are  not  sundered,  though  farewell  be  said* 
All  the  Year  Round. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

GOOD-NIGHT,  dear  friend !    I  say  good-night  to  thee 
Across  the  moonbeams,  tremulous  and  white, 

Bridging  all  space  between  us,  it  may  be. 
Lean  low,  sweet  friend ;  it  is  the  last  good-night. 

For,  lying  low  upon  my  couch,  and  still, 
The  fever  flush  evanished  from  my  face, 

I  heard  them  whisper  softly,  "  'T  is  His  will ; 
Angels  will  give  her  happier  resting-place  1 " 

And  so  from  sight  of  tears  that  fell  like  rain, 
And  sounds  of  sobbing  smothered  close  and  low, 

I  turned  my  white  face  to  the  window-pane, 
To  say  good-night  to  thee  before  I  go. 

Good-night !  good-night  I    I  do  not  fear  the  end, 
The  conflict  with  the  billows  dark  and  high ; 

And  yet,  if  I  could  touch  thy  hand,  my  friend, 
I  think  it  would  be  easier  to  die ; 

If  I  could  feel  through  all  the  quiet  waves 
Of  my  deep  hair  thy  tender  breath  athrill, 

I  could  go  downward  to  the  place  of  graves 
With  eyes  ashine  and  pale  lips  smiling  still; 

Or  it  may  be  that,  if  through  all  the  strife 
And  pain  of  parting  I  should  hear  thy  call, 

I  would  come  singing  back  to  sweet,  sweet  life, 
And  know  no  mystery  of  death  at  all. 


PARTING  AND  ABSENCE.  359 

It  may  not  be.    Good-night,  dear  friend,  good-night  I 

And  when  you  see  the  violets  again, 
And  hear,  through  boughs  with  swollen  buds  awhite, 

The  gentle  falling  of  the  April  rain, 

Remember  her  whose  young  life  held  thy  name 
With  all  things  holy,  in  its  outward  flight, 

And  turn  sometimes  from  busy  haunts  of  men 
To  hear  again  her  low  good-night !  good-night ! 

HESTER  A.  BENEDICT. 


SAD  VENTURES. 


I  STOOD  and  watched  my  ships  go  out, 
Each,  one  by  one,  unmooring,  free, 

What  time  the  quiet  harbor  filled 
With  flood-tide  from  the  sea. 

The  first  that  sailed,  her  name  was  Joy ; 

She  spread  a  smooth,  white,  shining  sail, 
And  eastward  drove  with  bending  spars 

Before  the  sighing  gale. 

Another  sailed,  her  name  was  Hope  \ 
No  cargo  in  her  hold  she  bore ; 

Thinking  to  find  in  western  lands 
Of  merchandise  a  store. 

The  next  that  sailed,  her  name  was  Love  ; 

She  showed  a  red  flag  at  her  mast,  — 
A  flag  as  red  as  blood  she  showed, 

And  she  sped  south  right  fast. 

The  last  that  sailed,  her  name  was  Faith ; 

Slowly  she  took  her  passage  forth, 
Tacked  and  lay  to  ;  at  last  she  steered 

A  straight  course  for  the  north. 

My  gallant  ships,  they  sailed  away 
Over  the  shimmering  summer  sea ; 

I  stood  at  watch  for  many  a  day  — 
But  one  came  back  to  me. 

For  Joy  was  caught  by  pirate  Pain ; 

Hope  ran  upon  a  hidden  reef, 
And  Love  took  fire  and  foundered  fast 

In  whelming  seas  of  grief. 


360  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Faith  came  at  last,  storm-beat  and  torn  — 

She  recompensed  me  all  my  loss ; 
For,  as  a  cargo  safe,  she  brought 

A  crown  linked  to  a  cross. 
Boston  Cultivator. 


HOPE  DEFERRED. 

His  hand  at  last !  By  his  own  fingers  writ, 
I  catch  my  name  upon  the  wayworn  sheet : 

His  hand  —  oh,  reach  it  to  me  quick  !     And  yet, 
Scarce  can  I  hold,  so  fast  my  pulses  beat. 

O  feast  of  soul  1  O  banquet  richly  spread  I 
O  passion-lettered  scroll  from  o'er  the  sea  ! 

Like  a  fresh  burst  of  life  to  one  long  dead, 
Joy,  strength,  and  bright  content  come  back  with  thee, 

Long  prayed  and  waited  for  through  months  so  drear ; 

Each  day  methought  my  waiting  heart  must  break ; 
Why  is  it  that  our  loved  ones  grow  more  dear 

The  more  we  suffer  for  their  sweetest  sake  ? 

His  hand  at  last !  each  simple  word  aglow 
With  truthful  tenderness  and  promise  sweet. 

Now  to  my  daily  tasks  I  '11  singing  go, 
Fed  by  the  music  of  this  wayworn  sheet. 


FATE. 

As  two  proud  ships  upon  the  pathless  main 
Meet  once  and  never  hope  to  meet  again,  — 
Meet  once  with  merry  signallings,  and  part, 
Each  homeward  bound  to  swell  the  crowded  mart, 
So  we  two  met,  one  golden  summer  day, 
Within  the  shelter  of  life's  dreaming  bay, 
And  rested,  calmly  anchored  from  the  world, 
For  one  brief  hour,  with  snowy  pinions  furled; 
But  when  the  sun  sank  low  along  the  west, 
We  left  our  harbor,  with  its  peaceful  rest, 
And  floated  outward  in  life's  tangled  sea 
With  foam-kissed  waves  between  Us,  wild  and  free. 
As  two  ships  part  upon  the  trackless  main, 
So  we  two  parted.     Shall  we  meet  again  ? 


PARTING  AND  ABSENCE.  361 


THOUGH  LOST  TO  SIGHT,  TO  MEM'RY  DEAR. 

SWEETHEART,  good-by  !  The  fluttering  sail 

Is  spread  to  waft  me  far  from  thee, 
And  soon  before  the  fav 'ring  gale 

My  ship  shall  bound  upon  the  sea. 
Perchance,  all  desolate  and  forlorn, 

These  eyes  shall  miss  thee  many  a  year, 
But  unforgotten  every  charm, — 

Though  lost  to  sight,  to  mem'ry  dear. 

Sweetheart,  good-by !  one  last  embrace  ! 

O  cruel  Fate,  true  souls  to  sever ! 
Yet  in  this  heart's  most  sacred  place 

Thou,  thou  alone  shalt  dwell  forever  ! 
And  still  shall  recollection  trace, 

In  Fancy's  mirror,  ever  near, 
Each  smile,  each  tear,  that  form,  that  face,  — 

Though  lost  to  sight,  to  mem'ry  dear. 

(  Verses  written  in  an  old  memorandum-book. 
The  author  unknown.) 


HIS  MESSENGER. 

MARJORIE,  with  the  waiting  face, 

Marjorie,  with  the  pale  brown  hair, 
She  sits  and  sews  in  the  silent  place, 

She  counts  the  steps  on  the  outer  stair. 
Two,  three,  four  —  they  pass  her  door, 

The  patient  face  droops  low  again, 
Still  it  is  as  it  was  before  — 
Oh  !  will  he  come  indeed  no  more, 

And  are  her  prayers  all  prayed  in  vain  ? 

Through  the  warm  and  the  winter  night, 

Marjorie,  with  the  wistful  eves, 
She  keeps  her  lonely  lamp  alight 

Until  the  stars  are  dim  in  the  skies. 
Through  the  gray  and  the  shining  day 

Her  pallid  fingers,  swift  and  slim, 
Set  their  stitches,  nor  one  astray, 
Though  her  heart  it  is  far  away, 

Over  the  summer  seas  with  him. 

Over  the  distant  summer  seas 
Marjorie's  yearning  fancies  fly ; 

She  feels  the  kiss  of  the  island  breeze, 
She  sees  the  blue  of  the  tropic  sky. 


362  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Does  she  know,  as  they  come  and  go, 
Those  waves  that  lap  the  island  shore, 

That  under  their  ceaseless  ebb  and  flow 

Golden  locks  float  to  and  fro,  — 

Tangled  locks  she  will  comb  no  more  ? 

Many  a  hopeless  hope  she  keeps, 

Marjorie  with  the  aching  heart ; 
Sometimes  she  smiles,  and  sometimes  she  weeps, 

At  thoughts  that  all  unbidden  start. 
I  can  see  what  the  end  will  be : 

Some  day  when  the  Master  sends  for  her, 
A  voice  she  knows  will  say  joyfully, 
**  God  is  waiting  for  Marjone," 

And  her  lover  will  be  his  messenger. 


PART  XIII. 


Such  is  my  name,  and  such  my  tale. 

Confessor  !  to  thy  secret  ear 
I  breathe  the  sorrows  I  be-wail. 

And  thank  thee  for  the  generous  tear 
This  glazing  eye  could  never  shed. 
Then  lay  me  -with  the  humblest  dead, 
And,  save  the  cross  above  my  head, 
Be  neither  name  nor  emblem  spread. 

BYRON. 


PART    XIII. 

aub 


THE  ASH  POOL. 

THE  wet  wind  sobs  o'er  the  sodden  leas, 

And  wails  through  the  branches  of  leafless  trees, 

As  mourning  the  seeds  in  the  fallows  lost, 

And  the  pale  buds  peeping  to  die  in  the  frost, 

When  Winter  asserts  his  lingering  reign, 

And  his  sceptre  glitters  on  hill  and  plain. 

Drearily  meadows  and  uplands  lie 

'Neath  the  low  long  sweep  of  sullen  sky, 

And,  sad  and  still  as  the  hushed  green  Yule, 

'Neath  the  straggling  boughs  lies  the  Great  Ash  Pool. 

Black  and  cold,  and  stagnant  and  deep, 

No  silvery  fins  from  its  waters  leap  ; 

No  brown  wings  flutter,  no  pattering  feet, 

Tell  that  life  in  its  banks  finds  safe  retreat  ; 

No  lily-buds  to  its  surface  cling, 

But  docken  and  nightshade  around  it  spring; 

The  very  trees  that  about  it  stand 

Are  twisted  and  gnarled  as  by  witches'  hand, 

And  the  ghost  of  a  story  of  sin  and  dule 

Like  a  mist  hangs  over  the  Great  Ash  Pool. 

When  June's  soft  magic  is  on  the  earth, 

And  the  rose  and  the  violet  spring  to  birth, 

When  the  bright  becks  dance  'neath  the  bright  leaves'  shade, 

And  the  wild  birds  carol  from  glen  and  glade, 

Not  a  sunbeam  glints  on  its  breast  to  play, 

Not  a  murmur  welcomes  the  golden  day, 

No  children  loiter  beside  its  brink, 

No  shy  fawn  lingers  its  wave  to  drink  ; 

The  old  tree's  shadow  is  deep  and  cool, 

Yet  no  lovers  keep  tryst  at  the  Great  Ash  Pool. 


366  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Yet  once  by  its  waters  wild  vows  were  spoken, 

In  passion  heard  and  in  falsehood  broken, 

Two  bright  heads  over  its  margin  bent, 

When  the  moon  to  its  depths  soft  radiance  lent ; 

A  little  while  and  one  face  lay  there, 

With  its  blue  eyes  glazed  in  their  last  despair, — 

Eyes  that  stared  upward  through  weed  and  slime, 

With  their  story  of  sorrow,  and  shame,  and  crime ; 

So,  in  glory  of  summer,  or  gladness  of  Yule, 

A  curse  hangs  over  the  Great  Ash  Pool. 


ACCURSED. 

PALLID  white  the  moonlight  gloweth 

Through  the  shadows  weird  and  dim ; 
Mournfully  the  river  floweth 
Past  the  cedars  gaunt  and  grim. 

Soft  across  the  twilight  bar, 

In  the  rosy  light  afar, 
Like  a  gem  of  antique  splendor, 
Gleams  the  mystic  Eastern  star. 

Once  o'er  Judah's  hill  of  purple 

Shone  the  star  like  living  flame ; 
Through  her  valleys,  green  and  fertile, 
Came  the  echo  of  His  name. 

In  those  years  so  long  agone  — 

In  religion's  blessed  dawn, 
On  my  head  the  black  curse  falleth  — 
"  Ever  —  evermore  move  on." 

Eighteen  hundred  years  I  've  wandered,  — 
And  my  eyes  are  dimmed  with  tears,  — 
Seeking  death  where  storms  have  thundered, 
With  a  heart  unknown  to  fears. 

Years  may  come  and  years  may  go 

In  their  vast  eternal  flow, 
But  upon  my  vague,  wild  wanderings 
Still  my  weary  feet  must  go. 

Shiveringly  the  night  wind  waileth 

Sibilant  dirges  of  my  doom, 
And  the  gold  of  evening  paleth  — 
Fadeth  into  deeper  gloom. 

'Neath  the  star  I  kneel  and  cry, 

"  Mercy,  mercy,  Thou  on  high  I 
Thou  whose  heart  is  filled  with  pity, 

List  to  my  despairing  cry  I  " 
Sacramento  Union ,  1874. 


TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW.  367 


SLANDER. 

T  WAS  but  a  breath  — 
And  yet  the  fair,  good  name  was  wilted ; 
And  friends  once  fond  grew  cold  and  stilted. 

And  life  was  worse  than  death. 

One  venomed  word, 
That  struck  its  coward,  poisoned  blow, 
In  craven  whispers,  hushed  and  low  — 

And  yet  the  wide  world  heard. 

'T  was  but  one  whisper  —  one, 
That  muttered  low,  for  very  shame, 
The  thing  the  slanderer  dare  not  name  •— 

And  yet  its  work  was  done. 

A  hint  so  slight, 
And  yet  so  mighty  in  its  power, 
A  human  soul  in  one  short  hour 

Lies  crushed  beneath  its  blight. 


CALUMNY. 

A  WHISPER  woke  the  air, 

A  soft,  light  tone  and  low, 
Yet  barbed  with  shame  and  woe. 
Ah  I  might  it  only  perish  there, 
Nor  farther  go. 

But  no,  a  quick  and  eager  ear 

Caught  up  the  little,  meaning  sound ; 
Another  voice  has  breathed  it  clear, 

And  so  it  wandered  round 
From  ear  to  lip,  from  lip  to  ear, 

Until  it  reached  a  gentle  heart 

That  throbbed  from  all  the  world  apart,  v 

And  that  —  it  broke. 

MRS.  FRANCES  OSGOOD. 


THE  OUTCAST. 

BLEAK  winds  of  the  winter,  sobbing  and  moaning, 
Pluck  not  my  rags  with  your  pitiless  hand ; 

Here  in  the  darkness,  cold  and  despairing, 
Homeless,  and  friendless,  and  starving  I  stand. 


368  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Scourged  by  the  white,  icy  whips  of  the  tempest, 

I  wander  forlorn  on  my  desolate  way, 
Forgotten  of  earth  and  forsaken  of  Heaven, 

Too  frozen  to  kneel  and  too  hungry  to  pray. 

I  look  at  the  stately  and  palace-like  dwellings 

That  line  with  their  grandeur  the  pathway  I  tread ; 
I  fancy  the  brightness  and  warmth  of  the  hearthstone, 

The  plenteous  board  with  the  wine  and  the  bread ; 
I  see  the  heads  bowed  with  a  reverent  meaning, 

A  blessing  is  breathed  o'er  the  sumptuous  fare ; 
Will  it  rise  to  the  ear  of  the  pitiful  Father, 

Or  die  of  the  cold,  like  the  vagabond's  prayer? 

Hark  1    Midnight     The  chime  from  the  church-tower  above  me 

Drops  solemnly  down  through  the  whirl  of  the  storm  ; 
If  one  could  pass  through  the  gate  to  the  portal, 

Could  sleep  there,  and  dream  it  was  lighted  and  warm  I 
Give  away,  cruel  bars  !  let  me  through  to  a  refuge  ! 

Give  awav  I     But  I  rave,  and  the  fierce  winds  reply : 
"  No  room  in  his  house  for  his  vagabond  children, 

No  room  in  his  porch  for  an  outcast  to  die." 

No  room  in  his  dwelling  —  no  room  in  the  churches, 

No  room  in  the  prison  —  for  hunger  's  no  crime ; 
Is  there  room  in  the  bed  of  the  river,  I  wonder, 

Deep  down  by  the  pier  in  the  ooze  and  the  slime  ? 
Mock  on,  taunting  wind !  I  can  laugh  back  an  answer, 

An  hour,  and  your  bitterest  breath  I  defy  ; 
Since  bars  shut  me  out  of  God's  house  among  mortals, 

I  will  knock  at  the  gate  of  his  home  in  the  sky ! 

MARY  L.  RITTER. 


DESERTED. 

COLD  !  so  cold  !  and  the  night  looks  down 
On  a  shivering  form  in  a  tattered  gown, 
On  a  lone,  lone  heart,  and  a  pair  of  eyes 
Abrim  with  life's  keen  miseries. 

Kiss  on  kiss 

By  the  flakes  are  told, 

Kiss  on  kiss — 

But  oh !  so  cold. 

Even  the  touch  that  ought  to  bless 
Mocketh  the  wanderer's  wretchedness. 

How  can  the  loved  in  the  land  of  light 
Peer  through  the  dismal  deeps  of  night, 
With  never  a  star  to  break  the  gloom, 
Or  sweep  one  cloud  from  the  path  of  doom  ? 


TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW.  369 

Flake  on  flake 

O'er  vale  and  hill, 

Flake  on  flake 

With  touch  so  chill, — 
With  touch  that  sinks  like  the  shaft  of  hate 
Deep  in  the  heart  so  desolate. 

"  Cold !  so  cold !  "  and  the  ruddy  glare 
Of  lights  that  glint  in  the  frosty  air 
Reddens  each  flake  that  falls  upon 
A  hapless,  homeless,  friendless  one ; 

Drop  by  drop 

Of  the  blood-red  snow, 

Drop  by  drop 

In  the  cup  of  woe — 
A  chalice  filled  for  Want's  pale  bride, 
A  pauper's  feast  for  a  Christmas-tide. 

Joy  sails  out  on  the  winter's  wings, 
And  tuned  for  self  is  the  lay  she  sings ; 
Its  echoes  drift  with  the  icy  air, 
And  mock  the  sufferer's  piteous  prayer ; 

Wave  on  wave 

With  the  night  wind  strong, 

Wave  on  wave 

Of  the  bitter  song 

That  floats  where  the  sails  of  hope  are  furled, 
And  crowns  the  wounds  of  a  heartless  world. 

"  Cold !  so  cold !  "    Not  the  cutting  blast, 
Nor  the  frosty  cloak  of  the  night-cloud  cast, 
But  the  cramped,  unpitying  hearts  that  beat 
The  rhyme  of  life  in  the  thronging  street. 

Throb  on  throb 

With  the  chime  of  pelf, 

Throb  on  throb 

To  the  song  of  self, 

But  not  one  pulse  to  the  measure  sweet, 
That  times  the  love  at  the  mercy-seat. 

The  night  wears  on,  and  the  moon  sails  out, 
And  the  clouds  sweep  back  to  the  realms  of  doubt, 
And  the  stars  look  down  for  the  shivering  form 
That  braved  the  thrusts  of  the  cruel  storm. 

Fold  on  fold 

Is  the  mantle  white, 

Fold  on  fold 

'Neath  the  eyes  of  night ; 
The  drifts  are  still  on  the  winter's  breath, 
And  the  spotless  robe  is  the  wing  of  death. 

24 


370  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


ONLY  A   WOMAN. 

ONLY  a  woman,  shrivelled  and  old ! 

The  play  of  the  winds  and  the  prey  of  the  cold ! 

Cheeks  that  are  shrunken, 

Eyes  that  are  sunken, 

Lips  that  were  never  o'erbold ; 
Only  a  woman,  forsaken  and  poor, 
Asking  an  alms  at  the  bronze  church-door. 
Hark  to  the  organ  !  roll  upon  roll 
The  waves  of  its  music  go  over  the  soul ! 

Silks  rustle  past  her 

Thicker  and  faster ; 

The  great  bell  ceases  its  toll. 
Fain  would  she  enter,  but  not  for  the  poor 
Swingeth  wide  open  the  bronze  church-door. 

Only  a  woman  —  waiting  alone, 
Icily  cold  on  an  ice-cold  throne. 

What  do  they  care  for  her? 

Mumbling  a  prayer  for  her, 

Giving  not  bread  but  a  stone. 
Under  old  laces  their  haughty  hearts  beat, 
Mocking  the  woes  of  their  kin  in  the  street ! 

Only  a  woman  1    In  the  old  days 
Hope  carolled  to  her,  her  happiest  lays ; 

Somebody  missed  her, 

Somebody  kissed  her, 

Somebody  crowned  her  with  praise  ; 
Somebody  faced  up  the  battles  of  life, 
Stronger  her  sake  who  was  mother  or  wife. 

Somebody  lies  with  a  tress  of  her  hair 

Light  on  his  heart  where  the  death-shadows  are ; 

Somebody  waits  for  her, 

Opening  the  gates  for  her, 

Giving  delight  for  despair. 
Only  a  woman  —  nevermore  poor  — 
Dead  in  the  snow  at  the  bronze  church-door  1 

HESTER  A.  BENEDICT. 

BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 

(AS   ORIGINALLY  WRITTEN,    DECEMBER,    1852.) 

BEAUTIFUL  snow  1    Beautiful  snow  1 

Falling  so  lightly, 

Daily  and  nightly, 
Alike  round  the  dwellings  of  lofty  and  low. 

Horses  are  prancing, 

Cheerily  dancing, 
Stirred  by  the  spirit  that  comes  from  the  snow. 


TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW.  371 

Beautiful  snow !    Beautiful  snow ! 

Up  at  the  dawning, 

In  the  cold  morning, 
Children  exult,  though  the  winds  fiercely  blow ; 

Hailing  the  snowflakes 

Falling  as  day  breaks  — 
Joyful  they  welcome  the  beautiful  snow. 

Beautiful  snow !    Beautiful  snow ! 

Childhood's  quick  glances 

See  the  bright  fancies 
Decking  the  window-panes  softly  and  slow ; 

Forest  and  city, 

Figure  so  pretty, 
Left  by  the  magical  fingers  of  snow. 

Beautiful  snow  I    Beautiful  snow ! 

Atmosphere  chilling. 

Carriage-wheels  stilling, 
Warming  the  cold  earth,  and  kindling  the  glow 

Of  Christian  pity 

For  the  great  city 
Of  wretched  creatures  who  starve  'mid  the  snow. 

Beautiful  snow  I    Beautiful  snow ! 

Fierce  winds  blowing, 

Thickly  't  is  snowing ; 
Night  gathers  round  us  —  how  warm  then  the  glow 

Of  the  fire  so  bright, 

On  the  cold  winter  night, 
As  we  draw  in  the  curtains  to  shut  out  the  snow. 

Beautiful  snow !    Beautiful  snow ! 

Round  the  bright  fireside, 

In  the  long  eventide, 
Closely  we  gather  though  keen  the  winds  blow ; 

Safely  defended, 

Kindly  befriended, 
Pity  the  homeless  exposed  to  the  cold,  icy  snow. 

MAJOR  SIGOURNEY 


BEAUTIFUL  SNOW. 

OH  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow, 
Filling  the  sky  and  the  earth  below  ! 
Over  the  house-tops,  over  the  street, 
Over  the  heads  of  the  people  you  meet, 
Dancing, 
Flirting, 

Skimming  along. 
Beautiful  snow  I  it  can  do  no  wrong. 


372  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Flying  to  kiss  a  fair  lady's  cheek; 
Clinging  to  lips  in  a  frolicsome  freak. 
Beautiful  snow,  from  the  heavens  above, 
Pure  as  an  angel  and  fickle  as  love. 

Oh  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow ! 
How  the  flakes  gather  and  laugh  as  they  go  ! 
Whirling  about  in  its  maddening  fun, 
It  plays  in  its  glee  with  every  one. 
Chasing, 
Laughing, 

Hurrying  by, 

It  lights  up  the  face  and  it  sparkles  the  eye ; 
And  even  the  dogs  with  a  bark  and  a  bound 
Snap  at  the  crystals  that  eddy  around. 
The  town  is  alive  and  its  heart  in  a  glow, 
To  welcome  the  coming  of  beautiful  snow. 

How  the  wild  crowd  goes  swaying  along, 
Hailing  each  other  with  humor  and  song  ! 
How  the  gay  sledges  like  meteors  flash  by,  — 
Bright  for  a  moment,  then  lost  to  the  eye  I 
Ringing, 
Swinging, 

Dashing,  they  go 

Over  the  crest  of  the  beautiful  snow ; 
Snow  so  pure  when  it  falls  from  the  sky, 
To  be  trampled  in  mud  by  the  crowd  rushing  by ; 
To  be  trampled  and  tracked  by  the  thousands  of  feet, 
Till  it  blends  with  the  horrible  filth  of  the  street. 

Once  I  was  pure  as  the  snow,  —  but  I  fell ; 
Fell,  like  the  snow-flakes,  from  heaven  —  to  hell ; 
Fell  to  be  tramped  as  the  filth  of  the  street  ; 
Fell  to  be  scoffed,  to  be  spit  on,  and  beat. 
Pleading, 
Cursing, 

Dreading  to  die, 

Selling  my  soul  to  whoever  would  buy, 
Dealing  in  shame  for  a  morsel  of  bread, 
Hating  the  living  and  fearing  the  dead. 
Merciful  God  !  have  I  fallen  so  low? 
And  yet  I  was  once  like  the  beautiful  snow ! 

Once  I  was  fair  as  the  beautiful  snow, 
With  an  eye  like  its  crystals,  a  heart  like  its  glow ; 
Once  I  was  loved  for  my  innocent  grace,  — 
Flattered  and  sought  for  the  charm  of  my  face. 
Father, 
Mother, 

Sisters  all, 
God,  and  myself,  I  have  lost  by  my  fall. 


TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW.  373 

The  veriest  wretch  that  goes  shivering  by 

Will  take  a  wide  sweep,  lest  I  wander  too  nigh ; 

For  of  all  that  is  on  or  about  me,  I  know, 

There  is  nothing  that 's  pure  but  the  beautiful  snow. 

How  strange  it  should  be  that  this  beautiful  snow 
Should  fall  on  a  sinner  with  nowhere  to  go  ! 
How  strange  it  would  be,  when  the  night  comes  again, 
If  the  snow  and  the  ice  struck  my  desperate  brain ! 
Fainting, 
Freezing, 

Dying  alone, 

Too  wicked  for  prayer,  too  weak  for  my  moan 
To  be  heard  in  the  crash  of  the  crazy  town, 
Gone  mad  in  its  joy  at  the  snow's  coming  down ; 
To  lie  and  to  die  in  my  terrible  woe, 
With  a  bed  and  a  shroud  of  beautiful  snow  ! 

Helpless  and  frail  as  the  trampled-on  snow, 
Sinner,  despair  not  —  Christ  stoopeth  low 
To  rescue  the  soul  that  is  lost  in  its  sin, 
And  raise  it  to  life  and  enjoyment  again. 
Groaning, 
Bleeding, 

Dying  for  thee, 

The  Crucified  hung  on  the  accursed  tree. 
His  accents  of  mercy  fall  soft  on  my  ear  ; 
Is  there  mercy  for  me,  will  he  heed  my  weak  prayer  ? 
O  God,  in  the  stream  that  for  sinners  doth  flow, 
Wash  me,  and  I  shall  be  whiter  than  snow. 

JAMES  W.  WATSON. 


SISTER  MADELEINE. 

THE  blessed  hush  of  eventide 
Over  the  weary  city  fell, 
And  softly  pealed  the  vesper-bell 

Across  the  waters  dim  and  wide, 
Breathing  a  sacred  spell. 

Across  the  waters  wide  and  dim, 

And  through  the  dusty,  murky  street, 
The  chimes  passed  on,  with  silver  feet : 

Chords  of  the  never-silent  hymn 
With  which  the  air  doth  beat. 

They  pulsed  across  the  silent  space 
Which  closed  the  old  cathedral  in, 
And  rang  remotely  through  the  din 

That  still  was  in  the  market-place, 
With  echo  faint  and  thin. 


374  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

One  of  the  bustling,  careless  throng 
Listened  apart,  with  low-bowed  head ; 
A  toiler,  he,  for  daily  bread,  — 

What  time  had  such  to  heed  the  song  ? 
Why  works  he  not  instead  ? 

A  far-off  look  is  in  his  eyes, 
He  seeth  nothing  that  is  near, 
He  only  doth  those  bell-tones  hear, 

Soft  ringing  through  the  purple  skies, 
Distant,  but  ever  dear. 

Oh,  happy  magic  of  their  chime ! 
The  dreams  of  youth  again  enfold 
That  time-worn  spirit,  growing  old 

Too  early  in  this  alien  clime, 
Where  hearts  as  snow  are  cold. 

But  fairest  of  the  treasures  sweet 

By  memory  brought  from  their  dim  place, 
Shineth  the  vision  of  a  face 

For  angel  habitations  meet 
In  its  transcendent  grace. 

He  saw  her  as  she  used  to  stand, 
With  parted  lips  and  lifted  eyes, 
Watching  the  wondrous  sunset  skies, 

And  pointing,  with  her  slender  hand, 
Towards  their  changeful  dyes. 

Ah,  what  can  give  the  world  release 
From  under  thraldom  of  this  pain, 
That  life  can  never  know  again 

The  rapturous  joy,  the  trust  and  peace 
Of  youth's  departed  train  ? 

But  not  of  this  he  thought  to-night : 
The  happy  days  of  long  ago 
Were  round  him,  with  unfaded  glow; 

The  flowers  as  fresh,  the  skies  as  bright, 
As  those  he  used  to  know. 

More  deep  and  dark  the  shadows  grew, 
The  bell's  last  echoes  died  away 
Within  the  heavens  still  and  gray. 

The  peace  of  night  seemed  sweet  arid  new 
After  the  toilful  day. 

But  lo  1  a  sudden,  blinding  glare 
Shot  upward  in  the  northern  sky ; 
And  loud  and  sharp  rang  out  a  cry 

That  human  seemed  in  its  despair,  — 
The  bells  of  Trinity, 


TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW.  375 

Which  but  a  few  short  hours  ago 

Breathed  their  good-night  so  tenderly 
Over  the  quiet  earth  and  sea, 

And  faded  with  the  sunset  glow 
Peaceful  exceedingly. 

But  now  across  the  night  they  ring 
With  a  wild  terror  and  despair 
That  thrills  through  all  the  fearful  air, 

Till  the  wide  heavens  seem  shuddering 
With  the  impassioned  prayer. 

And  human  hearts  have  heard  the  call : 
Thousands  are  thronging  up  the  steep 
Whereon  the  gray  old  tower  doth  keep 

Its  steadfast  vigil  over  all 
Within  its  shade  asleep. 

Too  late,  too  late  the  help  had  come, 
The  flames  were  curling  everywhere, 
And,  fainting  in  the  scorching  air, 

The  very  bells  at  last  were  dumb 
In  uttermost  despair. 

But  in  the  silence  that  succeeds 

The  sudden  hushing  of  the  bells, 

One  awful  human  cry  upswells, 
And  not  a  listening  heart  but  bleeds 

For  her  whose  fate  it  tells. 

"  Alas,  't  is  Sister  Madeleine ! " 
The  nuns  cry  out,  with  faces  pale, 
And  then  they  wring  their  hands,  and  wail ; 

For  sweeter  sister  ne'er  was  seen 
Beneath  a  convent  veil. 

But  while  the  thousands  held  their  breath, 
One  listener  sprang  with  footstep  light, 
Pushing  the  crowd  to  left  and  right, 

Forcing  his  way  to  fiery  death, 
While  every  cheek  grew  white. 

He  vanished  through  the  smoke-veiled  door, 

And  higher  yet,  with  fearful  glee, 

The  red  flames  clambered  merrily, 
Wrapping  the  lofty  tower  o'er 

With  splendor  sad  to  see. 

The  abbess  knelt,  with  ashen  face  — 
"  For  those  two  souls  we  cry  to  Thee, 
Through  Him  who  died  upon  the  tree, 

That  Thou  wilt  grant  to  them  thy  grace 
In  their  extremity." 


THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

A  thousand  voices  cried,  "Amen,"  — 

And  as  in  answer  to  the  prayer 

Out  from  the  blinding,  stifling  glare, 
Like  life  that  wakens  from  the  dead, 

Forth  came  the  fated  pair. 

Scorched,  blinded,  deafened,  on  they  pressed,  — 

The  dreamer  of  the  market-place, 

Close  holding  in  a  last  embrace, 
Close  holding  'gainst  a  dying  breast, 

That  dreamed-of  angel  face. 

Parting  and  pain  for  both  were  done ; 
Together  from  the  stranger's  strand 
Peacefully  passed  they,  hand  in  hand, 

Before  the  rising  of  the  sun, 
Into  the  "  Silent  Land." 

CLARE  EVEREST. 


LAST  AND   WORST. 

UPON  life's  highway  I  was  hastening,  when 

I  met  a  trouble  grim, 
Whom  I  had  often  seen  with  other  men, 

But  I  was  far  from  him. 

He  seized  my  arm,  and  with  a  sneering  lip 

Looked  o'er  my  happy  past ; 
With  sinking  heart  I  felt  his  bony  grip 

Clutch  tight  and  hold  me  fast. 

"  You  look,"  said  he,  "  so  happy  and  bright, 

That  I  have  come  to  see 
Why  other  troubles  miss  you  in  their  flight, 

And  what  you  '11  do  with  me." 

"  And  have  you  come  to  stay  with  me  ? "  I  cried, 

Hoping  respite  to  win. 
"  Yes,  I  have  come  to  stay.    Your  world  is  wide ; 

I  'm  crowded  where  I  have  been." 

I  would  not  look  him  in  the  face,  but  turned 

To  take  him  home  with  me 
To  all  my  other  troubles,  who  had  spurned 

His  hateful  company. 

So  he  was  "crowded,"  and  with  me  would  roam  ? 

I  laughed  with  sullen  glee ; 
At  arm's  length  took  him  up  the  steps  of  home 

Under  my  own  roof-tree. 


TRAGEDY  AND  SORROW.  377 

And  there  I  clutched  his  scrawny  neck  and  thin, 

To  thrust  him  in  the  room 
Where,  locked  and  barred,  I  kept  my  troubles,  in 

Seclusion's  friendly  gloom. 

Grimly  he  looked  at  me  with  eyes  that  burned : 

"  You  nothing  know  of  me ; 
The  key  on  other  troubles  may  be  turned, 

But  I  —  am  Poverty." 

Ah !  soon  I  knew  it  was  in  vain,  in  vain, 

No  locks  avail  for  him  ; 
Nor  double  doors,  nor  thickly  curtained  pane 

Could  make  his  presence  dim. 

He  wrote  his  name  on  all  my  threadbare  ways, 

And  in  my  shrinking  air ; 
He  told  the  tale  of  useless  shifts  and  stays 

I  made  against  despair  ; 

He  brushed  the  smile  from  off  my  sweet  wife's  face, 

And  left  an  anxious  frown  ; 
The  fresh  young  joys  that  should  my  children  grace 

His  heavy  foot  trod  down  ; 

He  took  my  other  troubles  out,  and  walked 

With  them  the  public  street ; 
Clad  in  my  sacred  sorrows,  cheaply  talked 

With  all  he  chanced  to  meet. 

The  hours  he  stretched  upon  the  rack  of  days, 

The  days  to  weeks  of  fears ; 
The  weeks  were  months,  whose  weary  toilsome  ways 

Stretched  out  through  hopeless  years. 

To-day  I  stooped  to  fan  with  eager  strife 

A  single  hope  which  glowed, 
And  'mid  the  fading  embers  of  my  life 

A  fitful  warmth  bestowed. 

Cheered  by  a  spark,  I  turned  with  trembling  limb 

Once  more  the  strife  to  wage ; 
But  as  I  turned  I  saw  my  trouble  grim 

Linking  his  arm  with  Age. 

Old  age  and  poverty,  —  here  end  the  strife  ! 

And  ye,  remorseless  pair, 
Drape  on  the  last,  dim  milestone  of  my  life 

Your  banner  of  despair. 

FRANCES  EKIN  ALLISON 


378  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


A  LOST  LETTER. 

JUST  read  this  letter,  old  friend  of  mine ; 

I  picked  it  up  upon  Margate  Pier, 
In  a  whirling  world  of  women  and  wine ; 

'T  was  blotted  and  blurred  with  a  fallen  tear. 
Come,  think  one  minute  of  years  ago, 

When  the  chance  was  with  us  —  a  soul  to  save, 
The  whim  was  in  us  to  love,  you  know, 

But  the  woman,  she  fell  to  a  fool  or  knave. 

"  'T  is  easy  to  picture  the  tortured  heart 
That  faced  despair  and  a  grief  like  this." 

She  saw  her  lover  unloved  depart 
And  turn  again  to  a  hateful  kiss. 

"  Had  I  been  loved  by  a  .man  like  you  "  — 

0  weary  woman  1     O  fearful  fate ! 

'T  is  a  passionate  cry  ;  but  it  strikes  me  through, 
Who  sigh  too  soon,  but  who  love  too  late. 

"  Who  was  the  woman  ?  "    I  seem  to  trace 

Her  footprints  here  in  Vanity  Fair  : 
A  mother,  perchance,  with  an  earnest  face  ; 

A  wife  with  a  glory  of  Titian  hair  ; 
A  soul  perplexed,  and  a  faith  at  stake, 

A  life  nigh  lost  —  there  are  thousands  such 
Who  face  the  world,  when  their  heart-strings  break 

For  the  one  kind  word  and  the  tender  touch  1 

Who  was  the  man  ?     What  matter  at  all  ? 

'T  is  man  who  ruins  and  sows  the  tears  ; 
T  is  men  who  tempt,  but  women  who  fall, 

And  are  never  absolved  in  the  deathless  years. 
The  least  we  can  do,  O  brothers,  is  this  ; 

Whilst  love  is  with  us,  and  life  seems  down, 
We  can  soothe  the  sad  with  a  gentle  kiss, 

And  dry  the  eyes  that  our  sins  can  drown  1 

Go  back,  lost  letter  of  wild  despair, 

1  will  cast  you  forth  on  the  infinite  sea ; 
But  the  day  glides  on,  and  the  Margate  air 

Is  piercing  sweet  to  the  world  and  me. 
But  still  I  can  never  forget  —  can  you  ?  — 

That  cry  that  nothing  can  soothe  or  cease ; 
"  Had  I  been  loved  by  a  man  like  you, 

I  had  lived  far  better  and  died  in  peace  !  " 

CLEMENT  SCOTT. 

NOTE.  —  Extract  from  a  letter  picked  up  on  Margate  Pier :  "  I  am  so  sorry 
you  are  obliged  to  go  away  to-day.  You  do  not  know  how  much  I  care  to 
be  with  you.  You  are  so  different  to  other  men,  —  so  kind  to  me.  If  I  had 
known  a  man  like  you  years  ago,  I  might  have  been  a  better  woman.* * 


PART   XIV. 
an& 


The  thoughtless  world  to  majesty  may  bow, 

Exalt  the  brave,  and  idolize  success  ; 
But  more  to  innocence  their  safety  owe 

Than  power  or  genius  e'er  conspired  to  bless. 

And  thou  who,  mindful  of  the  unhonored  Dead, 
Dost  in  these  notes  their  artless  tales  relate, 

By  night  and  lonely  contemplation  led 
To  wander  in  the  gloomy  walks  of  fate: 

Hark  !  how  the  sacred  calm,  that  breathes  around, 
Bids  every  fierce,  tumultuous  passion  cease  ; 

In  still  small  accents  whispering  from  the  ground, 

A  grateful  earnest  of  eternal  peace. 
Lines  rejected  from  the  "  Elegy."  GRAY. 


PART    XIV. 

anti 


NOTHING  AT  ALL  IN  THE  PAPER  TO-DAY. 

NOTHING  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day  ! 

Only  a  murder  somewhere  or  other  ; 
A  girl  who  has  put  her  child  away, 

Not  being  a  wife  as  well  as  a  mother  ; 
Or  a  drunken  husband  beating  a  wife, 

With  the  neighbors  lying  awake  to  listen, 
Scarce  aware  he  has  taken  a  life, 

Till  in  at  the  window  the  dawn  rays  glisten. 
But  that  is  all  in  the  regular  way  — 
There  's  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day. 

Nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day  ! 

To  be  sure,  there  's  a  woman  died  of  starvation, 
Fell  down  in  the  street,  as  so  many  may 

In  this  very  prosperous  Christian  nation  ; 
Or  two  young  girls,  with  some  inward  grief 

Maddened,  have  plunged  in  the  inky  waters  ; 
Or  father  has  learnt  that  his  son  's  a  thief, 

Or  mother  been  robbed  of  one  of  her  daughters. 
Things  that  occur  in  their  regular  way  — 
There  's  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day. 

There  's  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day, 

Unless  you  care  about  things  in  the  city  — 
How  great  rich  rogues  for  their  crimes  must  pay 

(Though  all  gentility  cries  out,  "  Pity  !  ") 
Like  the  meanest  shop-boy  that  robs  a  till. 

There  's  a  case  to-day,  if  I  'm  not  forgetting, 
The  lad  only  "  borrowed  "  —  as  such  lads  will  — 

To  pay  some  money  he  lost  in  betting  ; 
But  there  's  nothing  in  this  that  's  out  of  the  way  — 
There  's  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day. 


382  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day 

But  the  births  and  bankruptcies,  deaths  and  marriages, 
But  life's  events  in  the  old  survey, 

With  Virtue  begging,  and  Vice  in  carriages ; 
And  kindly  hearts  under  ermine  gowns, 

And  wicked  breasts  under  hodden  gray ; 
For  goodness  belongs  not  only  to  clowns, 

And  o'er  others  than  lords  does  sin  bear  sway. 
But  what  do  I  read  ?  "  Drowned  !  wrecked ! "    Did  I  say 
There  was  nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day  ? 


CITY  CONTRASTS. 


A  BAREFOOTED  child  on  the  crossing, 

Sweeping  the  mud  away, 
A  lady  in  silks  and  diamonds, 

Proud  of  the  vain  display ; 
A  beggar  blind  on  the  curbstone, 

A  rich  man  passing  along ; 
A  tiny  child  with  a  tambourine 

Wailing  out  her  life  in  song. 

A  pauper  in  lone  hearse  passing, 

Hurried  away  to  the  tomb ; 
A  train  of  carriages,  music  grand, 

And  the  flutter  of  waving  plume. 
For  the  one  there  is  never  a  mourner, 

He  cumbered  the  earth  alway ; 
For  the  other  the  flags  at  half-mast  droop, 

And  the  city  wears  black  to-day. 

A  soldier  with  one  sleeve  empty, 

That  sadly  hangs  by  his  side, 
Another  shuffling  along  the  walk 

In  the  flush  of  health  and  pride ; 
A  cripple-girl  slowly  toiling 

Through  the  vexed  and  crowded  street, 
And  tearfully  gazing  at  those  who  pass 

With  hearts  as  light  as  their  feet. 

A  wreck  of  a  woman  flaunting, 

As  if  proud  of  her  very  shame, 
A  purer  sister  whose  modest  cheeks 

Would  crimson  e'en  at  the  name ; 
A  petty  thief  stealing  in  terror, 

Afraid  in  your  face  to  gaze, 
And  one  who  has  robbed  by  thousands, 

Courting  the  sun's  broad  blaze. 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.         383 

The  millionnaire  in  his  carriage, 

The  workman  plodding  along, 
The  humble  follower  of  the  right, 

And  the  slave  of  the  giant  wrong  ; 
The  murderer  seeking  a  refuge, 

Looking  ever  wearily  back, 
And  the  sleuth-hounds  of  the  broken  law 

Following  silently  in  his  track. 

The  judge,  freed  now  of  the  ermine, 

Pompous  of  place  and  power, 
And  the  shivering  wretch  his  word  will  doom 

To  prison  within  an  hour ; 
The  miser  clutching  his  pennies, 

The  spendthrift  squandering  gold, 
The  meek-eyed  Sister  of  Mercy, 

And  the  woman  brazen  and  bold. 

The  widow,  in  weeds  of  blackness, 

Meets  the  bride  at  the  church  door  — 
The  future  for  one  holds  nothing  but  tears, 

But  joy  for  the  other  in  store. 
A  cradle  jostles  a  coffin  — 

Orange-flowers,  with  honeyed  breath, 
Are  wove  by  the  self-same  fingers 

That  but  now  made  a  cross  for  death. 

Dives  and  Lazarus  elbow 

Each  other  whene'er  they  meet, 
And  the  crumbs  from  the  rich  man's  table 

Feed  the  beggar  upon  the  street. 
And  penury  crowdeth  plenty, 

And  sin  stalks  boldly  abroad, 
And  the  infidel  holds  his  head  proudly 

As  the  child  of  the  living  God. 

The  bee  in  its  ceaseless  searching 

Finds  sweets  in  each  flower  fair, 
And  the  noisome  spider,  creeping  up, 

Finds  nothing  but  poison  there. 
And  so  life  is  made  up  of  contrasts  — 

Rich  and  poor,  coward  and  brave, 
Virtue  and  vice,  and  all  will  find 

Equality  in  the  grave. 


384  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


THE   HUMMING   OF   THE   WIRES. 

OVER  the  telegraph  wires 

The  wild  winds  sweep  today, 
And  I  catch  a  musical  humming 

As  of  harpers  at  their  play,  — 
As  of  distant  bells  slow  ringing 

At  the  dying  of  the  day. 

Many  the  messages  shooting 

Along  the  slender  line, 
And  it  seems  as  if  every  message 

Must  have  left  some  voice  behind,  — 
Must  have  set  the  bells  to  swinging, 

That  I  hear  in  silvery  chime. 

Tidings  of  death  are  they  sending  ? 

So  hushed  the  sad  refrain  ! 
Now  it  quickens,  merrily  quickens, 

And  it  peals  a  blither  strain ! 
Of  its  joy  some  heart  is  telling, 

Ring,  O  bells,  glad  bells,  again ! 

Here  by  the  track  I  am  asking, 
These  varying  sounds  so  blend, 

Whether  God,  who  wills  for  his  children 
All  events  toward  good  shall  tend, 

May  not  hear  our  joys  and  sorrows 
In  like  harmony  ascend. 

Over  the  marsh  by  the  railroad 

The  wild  winds  sweep  to-day, 
And  they  touch  the  telegraph  wires, 

And  a  strange,  weird  tune  they  play, 
Till  the  air  is  sweet  with  harpings, 

And  with  church-bells  far  away. 
Boston  Journal.  EDWARD  A.  RAND. 


THE  TELEGRAPH   CLERK. 

SITTING  here  by  my  desk  all  day, 

Hearing  the  constant  click 
As  the  messages  speed  on  their  way, 

And  the  call  comes  sharp  and  quick  — 
Oh,  what  a  varied  tale  they  tell 

Of  joy  and  hope  and  fear  ! 
The  funeral  knell  and  the  marriage  bell 

In  their  steady  tick  I  hear. 


EVBRY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.      385 

"  Mother  is  dying  ;  come  at  once." 

And  the  tears  will  almost  start, 
For  tender  daughters  and  loving  sons  — 

God  pity  each  aching  heart ! 
Ah  1  how  the  haunting  memories  press 

Back  to  the  mind  once  more, 
Of  the  mother's  unfailing  tenderness, 

That  is  now  forever  o'er. 

"I  am  well;  will  come  to-night" 

How  bright  some  eyes  will  glow 
All  day  long  with  a  happy  light 

As  they  watch  the  moments  go. 
"  Have  had  no  letters  ;  is  something  wrong?  " 

Some  heart  is  sad  to-day, 
Counting  the  hours  that  seem  so  long 

For  the  sake  of  one  away. 

"  Arthur  Ross,  by  accident  killed ; 

Tell  his  mother,  am  coming  home" 
Alas  for  the  home  with  such  sorrow  filled, 

When  the  bitter  tidings  come  1 
"Alice  is  better;  gaining  fast" 

And  hearts  that  have  been  bowed 
Under  their  weight  of  fear,  at  last 

Shall  lose  their  weary  load. 

So  over  the  wires  the  tidings  speed, 

Bitter  and  grave  and  gay ; 
Some  hearts  shall  beat,  and  some  shall  bleed, 

For  the  tale  they  have  to  say. 
As  I  sit  all  day  by  my  desk  alone 

I  hear  the  stream  go  by, 
And  catch  the  wires'  changeful  tone, 

With  a  smile  and  then  a  sigh. 


GOING  HOME   IN   THE  MORNING. 

A  POOR  little  bird  trilled  a  song  in  the  west,  — 

A  poor  little  bird  with  a  stain  on  its  breast. 

Beaten  down  by  the  rain  and  too  weak  for  flight, 

It  fell  in  the  city  unseen  in  the  night. 

As  it  trilled  its  sad  song,  other  birds  of  the  air, 

The  respectable  ones,  wondered  who  could  be  there. 

Out  in  the  darkness,  while  passing,  I  heard 

The  wail  of  the  poor  little  vagabond  bird. 

Being  homeless  myself,  I  hunted  and  found 

The  weak  little  vagrant  stretched  out  on  the  ground. 

I  raised  it,  and  gave  it  of  all  I  possessed, 

A  warm  cosey  shelter  close  up  to  my  breast ; 


386  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  I  whispered :  "  Don't  worry,  rather  whistle  and  sing, 
You  poor  little  innocent  vagabond  thing. 
Very  soon  now  the  storm  will  have  passed  from  the  sky, 
Very  soon,  too,  the  sun  will  be  shining  on  high, 
And  you  shall  go  home  in  the  morning." 


A  broken-down  man  then  was  walking  the  street ; 
As  I  passed  him  I  stayed  for  a  moment  my  feet. 
Cried  the  man :  "  It  is  hard  !     So  many  have  health 
And  beauty  and  youth  and  pleasure  and  wealth, 
Whilst  we  are  unnoticed  by  God  or  by  man, 
Accursed  and  degraded,  and  under  the  ban !  " 
"  My  brother,"  said  I,  "  I  am  seeking,  like  you, 
For  a  something  to  eat,  for  a  something  to  do ; 
Let  us  keep  on  our  way,  let  us  keep  it  together, 
Through  the  cold  and  the  mire  and  the  pitiless  weather, 
Hoping  still  for  the  best ;  soon  the  night  will  be  gone, 
And  after  the  night  always  cometh  the  dawn, 
And  we  can  go  home  in  the  morning." 


We  paused  as  we  passed  an  old  rickety  shed ; 
We  glanced  well  within — then  we  glanced  overhead  ; 
The  sky  with  the  darkness  was  all  overcast, 
The  snowflakes  whirled  down  and  clung  to  us  fast ; 
How  I  fondled  my  bird  —  it  had  no  one  to  love  it. 
Said  the  man  :  "  This  is  bad  —  grows  worse  and  more  of  it; " 
But  we  entered  the  shed,  and  out  under  the  lamp 
Slowly  drifted  anigh  us  the  form  of  a  tramp. 
To  be  out  in  the  storm-blast !     Ah,  me  !  't  was  a  sin  I 
So  I  stepped  from  the  shelter,  invited  her  in, 
And  took  the  poor  babe,  without  wasting  of  words, 
And  then,  you  '11  perceive,  I  had  two  little  birds  I 
And  we  all  stood  there  hungry,  haggard,  and  wan, 
Awaiting  in  silence  the  coming  of  dawn, 
So  we  could  go  home  in  the  morning. 


An  hour  ere  dawn,  being  cold  and  a-shiver, 

We  moved  all  together  a-down  to  the  river. 

Thus  passing,  the  poor  little  bird  from  the  west 

Trilled  a  poor  little  song.     It  was  doing  its  best 

To  help  us  along,  and  it  tried  hard  to  sing ; 

But  being  a  famished  and  pitiful  thing, 

It  skipped  now  and  then  a  few  bars,  and  a  note 

Died  out  now  and  then  in  its  weak  little  throat. 

The  babe  on  my  arm  lay  and  listened  awhile^ 

Then  looked  in  my  face  with  a  wondering  smile, 

As  out  through  my  vest,  that  was  ragged  and  torn, 

Peeped  the  poor  little  bird,  who  thought  it  was  morn, 

And  twittered,  and  looked  at  the  child  and  its  mother ; 

And  the  child  and  the  bird  grieved  the  one  for  the  other, 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.         387 

And  thought  it  was  strange  in  a  city  of  priests 
Two  such  innocent  things  should  be  out  on  the  streets. 
Well,  we  passed  on  our  way  —  a  vagabond  crew, 
Yet  I  think  in  our  hearts  every  one  of  us  knew 
That  we  should  go  home  in  the  morning. 

We  came  to  the  ferry-house,  stately  and  tall, 
And  crowded  for  warmth  in  the  shade  of  the  wall. 
Then  I  saw,  'mid  the  dirt  and  the  filth  at  my  feet, 
A  crust  of  nice  bread  lying  out  on  the  street ; 
I  grasped  it  and  gave  to  the  woman ;  she  smiled 
And  said,  "  It  don't  matter  now,  me  and  the  child, 
We  are  going  home  in  the  morning." 

It  was  very  near  daybreak,  I  noticed  at  last 
A  streak  like  the  dawn  afar  off  in  the  east. 
Then  we  moved  all  together  —  they  loosened  the  bar  — 
We  passed  through  the  gates  that  were  standing  ajar ; 
Moved  down  the  incline  where,  toward  us  afloat, 
From  over  the  river  was  drifting  the  boat. 
We  had  nothing  to  pay  —  no  passage  —  no  fares  — 
For  the  houseless  and  homeless  there  's  nobody  cares ; 
With  the  bird  and  the  child  and  the  vagabond  crew 
I  Bailed  from  the  shore,  and  I  very  well  knew 
Where  we  all  should  rejoice  m  the  morning. 

WAYNE  DOUGLAS 


DEAD   IN   HIS   BED. 

ONLY  a  man  dead  in  his  bed  —  that  is  all ! 
Stark,  stiff,  and  rigid  —  white  face  to  the  wall. 

Come  out  of  yesterday  somewhere,  to  here  — 

Well,  no  :  don't  think  he  had  friends  anywheres  near. 

Wanted  employment  —  that  7s  what  he  said ; 
No  work  to  give  him  —  next  thing,  he 's  dead. 

What  did  he  die  of,  sir  ?    Can  any  one  tell  ? 

A  fit,  did  they  think  it  was  ?    Last  night  he  was  well. 

Heart-disease  ?    May  be.     What  was  his  name  ? 
Don't  know ;  did  n't  register,  sir,  when  he  came. 

Laud'num,  they  say  it  was,  there  on  the  stand  — 
No,  stranger ;  don't  reckon  he  held  a  fair  hand. 

Suicide  ?    Yes,  that 's  what  the  coroner  said  — 
Scooped  out,  was  what  put  the  thing  into  his  head 


388  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Money  ?    Guess  not,  sir.     Why,  he  had  n't  enough 
To  pay  for  this  hole  in  the  sod,  of  the  stuff. 

Friends,  did  you  ask?    Oh,  yes  !     Sometime  or  other  — 
Reckon,  of  course,  the  boy  once  had  a  mother. 

Rather  rough  on  him,  pard ;  but  where 's  it  to  end, 

When  you  're  panned  out  of  cash  and  can't  count  on  a  friend  ? 

Down  to  the  calaboose  —  that 's  where  they  took  him ; 
Good  enough  place,  when  a  man's  money 's  forsook  him ! 

Funeral  ?    Just  you  see  that  express  at  the  coroner's ! 
County  can't  pay  for  no  hearse,  nor  no  mourners. 

Well,  stranger,  you  Ve  got  me  !     Can  pray  if  you  will  — 
Rather  late  in  the  day,  when  a  man 's  dead  and  still. 

Strikes  me,  it  don't  count,  to  this,  under  my  spade ; 
And  as  for  the  rest  of  him  —  stranger,  that 's  played. 

No  offence,  sir ;  beg  pardon,  but  strikes  me  as  fair, 
And  a  pretty  sure  way  to  get  answer  to  prayer, 

Better  give  a  poor  devil  a  lift  while  he 's  here, 
Than  wait  till  he 's  passed  in  his  checks  over  there  ! 

A.  L.  BALLOU. 


GUILTY,  OR  NOT  GUILTY? 

SHE  stood  at  the  bar  of  justice, 

A  creature  wan  and  wild, 
In  form  too  small  for  a  woman, 

In  feature  too  old  for  a  child. 
For  a  look  so  worn  and  pathetic 

Was  stamped  on  her  pale  young  face, 
It  seemed  long  years  of  suffering 

Must  have  left  that  silent  trace. 

"  Your  name,"  said  the  judge,  as  he  eyed  her 

With  kindly  look,  yet  keen, 
«  Is  —  ? "    "  Mary  McGuire,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"  And  your  age  ? "  "I  am  turned  fifteen." 
"  Well,  Mary  —  "    And  then  from  a  paper 

He  slowly  and  gravely  read, 
"You  are  charged  here  —  I  am  sorry  to  say  it  — 

With  stealing  three  loaves  of  bread. 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.        389 

"  You  look  not  like  an  offender, 
»  And  I  hope  that  you  can  show 
The  charge  to  be  false.  Now,  tell  me, 

Are  you  guilty  of  this,  or  no  ?  " 
A  passionate  burst  of  weeping 

Was  at  first  her  sole  reply  ; 
But  she  dried  her  tears  in  a  moment, 

And  looked  in  the  judge's  eye. 

"  I  will  tell  you  just  how  it  was,  sir ; 

My  father  and  mother  are  dead, 
And  my  little  brothers  and  sisters 

Were  hungry,  and  asked  me  for  bread. 
At  first  I  earned  it  for  them 

By  working  hard  all  day, 
But  somehow  the  times  were  hard,  sir, 

And  the  work  all  fell  away. 

(t  I  could  get  no  more  employment ; 

The  weather  was  bitter  cold ; 
The  young  ones  cried  and  shivered 

(Little  Johnnie's  but  four  years  old). 
So  what  was  I  to  do,  sir  ? 

I  am  guilty,  but  do  not  condemn  ; 
I  took  —  oh,  was  it  stealing? — 

The  bread  to  give  to  them." 

Every  man  in  the  court-room  — 

Graybeard  and  thoughtless  youth  — 
Knew,  as  he  looked  upon  her, 

That  the  prisoner  spake  the  truth. 
Out  from  their  pockets  came  kerchiefs, 

Out  from  their  eyes  sprung  tears, 
And  out  from  old  faded  wallets 

Treasures  hoarded  for  years. 

The  judge's  face  was  a  study, 

The  strangest  you  ever  saw, 
As  he  cleared  his  throat  and  murmured 

Something-  about  the  law. 
For  one  so  learned  in  such  matters, 

So  wise  in  dealing  with  men, 
He  seemed  on  a  simple  question 

Sorely  puzzled  just  then. 

But  no  one  blamed  him,  or  wondered, 

When  at  last  these  words  they  heard, 
"  The  sentence  of  this  young  prisoner 

Is  for  the  present  deferred." 
And  no  one  blamed  him,  or  wondered, 

When  he  went  to  her  and  smiled, 
And  tenderly  led  from  the  court-room, 

Himself,  the  "  guilty  "  child. 


390  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


SCANDAL-MONGERS. 

Do  you  hear  the  scandal -mongers 

Passing  by, 
Breathing  poison  in  a  whisper, 

In  a  sigh  ? 

Moving  cautiously  and  slow, 
Smiling  sweetly  as  they  go, 
Never  noisy  —  gliding  smoothly  as  a  snake, 

Supping  here  and  sliding  there 

Through  the  meadows  fresh  and  fair, 
Leaving  subtle  slime  and  poison  in  their  wake. 

Saw  you  not  the  scandal-monger 

As  she  sat 
Beaming  brightly  'neath  the  roses 

On  her  hat  ? 

In  her  dainty  gloves  and  dress 
Angel-like,  and  nothing  less, 
Seemed  she  —  casting  smiles  and  pleasing  words  about. 

Once  she  shrugged  and  shook  her  head, 

Raised  her  eyes  and  nothing  said, 
When  you  spoke  of  friends,  and  yet  it  left  a  doubt. 

Did  you  watch  the  scandal-monger 

At  the  ball  ? 
Through  the  music,  rhythm,  beauty, 

Light,  and  all, 

Moving  here  and  moving  there, 
With  a  whisper  light  as  air, 
Casting  shadows  on  a  sister  woman's  fame  — 

Just  a  whispered  word  or  glance  — 

As  she  floated  through  the  dance, 
And  a  doubt  forever  hangs  upon  a  name. 

You  will  find  the  scandal-mongers 

Everywhere ; 
Sometimes  men,  but  often  women, 

Young  and  fair ; 

Yet  their  tongues  drip  foulest  slime, 
And  they  spend  their  leisure  time 
Casting  mud  on  those  who  climb  by  work  and  worth  I 

Shun  them,  shun  them  as  you  go  — 

Shun  them,  whether  high  or  low ; 
They  are  but  the  cursed  serpents  of  the  earth. 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.         391 


THE  CHURNING  SONG. 

APRON  on  and  dash  in  hand, 
O'er  the  old  churn  here  I  stand,  — 

Cachug ! 

How  the  thick  cream  spurts  and  flies, 
Now  on  shoes  and  now  in  eyes  !  — 

Cachug !     Cachug ! 

Ah !  how  soon  I  tired  get ! 
But  the  butter  lingers  yet ; 

Cachug ! 

Aching  back  and  weary  arm 
Quite  rob  churning  of  its  charm !  — 

Cachug !     Cachug ! 

See  the  golden  specks  appear  ! 

And  the  churn  rings  sharp  and  clear,  — • 

Cachink! 

Arms,  that  have  to  flag  begun, 
Work  on,  you  will  soon  be  done,  — 

Cachink !     Cachink ! 

Rich  flakes  cling  to  lid  and  dash  ; 
Hear  the  thin  milk's  watery  splash  !  — 

Calink! 

Sweetest  music  to  the  ear, 
For  it  says  the  butter 's  here !  — 

Calink !     Calink ! 
St.  Nicholas.  SILAS  DlNSMORE. 


TURNED   OUT   FOR   RENT. 

OUT,  out  in  the  night,  in  the  chill  wintry  air, 
Turned  out  on  the  pave  with  its  stones  cold  and  bare  ; 
Shut  out  from  her  home  with  its  sad  dearth  of  bread, 
Alone  with  her  God  and  the  stars  overhead ! 
Cast  out  with  her  babe  still  asleep  on  her  breast, 
Asleep  to  the  sorrow  that  mars  not  his  rest ; 
Asleep  to  the  new  pearls  bedecking  his  hair, 
Bright  gems  from  the  sea  of  his  mother's  despair. 
Out,  out  like  her  Lord, "  with  no  place  for  her  head," 
All  friendless,  and  houseless,  and  starving  for  bread; 
Thus  brought  face  to  face  with  her  life's  direst  woe, 
And  yet  't  is  unfelt  'neath  a  bitterer  blow  ; 
For  this  is  the  wail,  voiceless,  deep  in  her  heart, 
"  Cast  out  like  a  thief,  put  to  shame,  set  apart !  " 
But  what  hath  she  done,  with  her  wild  startled  eyes, 
And  what  with  her  tremulous,  short,  gasping  sighs  ? 


392  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Ah,  what,  with  her  weary  and  faltering  feet, 

Now  dragging  like  lead  through  the  fast  darkening  street  ? 

What !     Is  one  so  weak  found  a  dangerous  thing, 

Concealing  'mid  softness  a  treacherous  sting, 

That  ye  to  expel  her  have  borrowed  a  need 

Of  two  brawny  knights  of  the  star  and  the  reed  ; 

This,  this  is  her  crime  —  O  ye  winds,  whisper  low  I 

Nor  give  to  the  echoes  her  sad  tale  of  woe, 

Lest  they  tell  the  hills,  and  the  beasts  cry,  "  For  shame  !  " 

—  Gaunt  poverty  fills  all  her  measure  of  blame. 

M.  L.  S.  BURKE. 


AT  THE  COURT-HOUSE  DOOR. 

No !  no  1    I  don't  defend  him  — 

You  need  n't,  sir,  be  afraid  1 
Of  course  he 's  bad,  and  he 's  broke  the  laws, 

And  they  Ve  got  to  be  obeyed ; 
But  I  can't  help  kind  of  thinking  — 

I  beg  your  pardon,  squire  !  — 
If  we  had  had  a  start  like  him 

We  might  n't  got  much  higher. 

"  So  poor  ?  "    'T  wan't  that !  -%  7t  wan't  that,  sir  1 

A  home  may  be  awful  bare, 
And  keep  some  kind  of  quiet 

And  show  of  comfort  there ; 
But  when  it 's  all  dirt  and  disorder  — 

I  never  saw  such  a  place  !  — 
And  you  see  folks  said  't  would  always  be, 

Because  it  was  in  the  race ; 

And  it  had  been  so  —  that 's  true,  sir ; 

His  father  was  very  bad  ; 
And  the  poor  boy  looked  some  like  him  — 

And  't  was  all  against  the  lad  ; 
Folks  would  n't  allow  that  anything  good 

Could  come  of  such  a  stock  — 
Kind  folks  they  were,  too,  in  everything  else, 

But  here  as  set  as  a  rock. 
They  wouldn't  employ  him  to  labor  — 

They  did  n't  want  him  around ; 
There  were  plenty  of  nice  young  fellows, 

That  needed  work,  to  be  found. 

And  his  mother  —  she  was  a  drunkard ; 

And  that  was  against  him,  too ! 
And  so,  no  home,  no  comfort, 

And  nothing  to  get  to  do. 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.         393 

Oh,  well !  folks  always  expected  — 

His  poor  old  father,  you  see  — 
T  is  curious  how  their  figures 

And  the  way  he  went  agree ! 
But  I  've  thought  a  good  deal  about  it, 

And  I  Ve  kind  of  made  it  out, 
That  the  way  to  bring  up  a  fellow 

Is  n't  just  to  kick  him  about ! 

I  don't  think  much  of  talking, 

And  I  have  n't  much  to  say ; 
But  the  better  you  use  a  creature, 

The  more  you  will  get  to  pay. 
And  we  who  have  had  our  chances, 

And  friends  to  give  us  a  lift, 
Won't  be  too  hard  on  this  one, 

That  the  town  has  set  adrift ; 
For  if  the  neighbors  had  took  to  him, 

And  tried  to  help  him  along, 
You  see  —  it  may  be,  brother, 

He  had  n't  gone  quite  so  wrong  ! 


TRUST. 

SEARCHING  for  strawberries  ready  to  eat, 
Finding  them  crimson,  and  large,  and  sweet, 
What  do  you  think  I  found  at  my  feet, 

Deep  in  the  green  hillside  ? 
Four  brown  sparrows,  the  cunning  things 
Feathered  on  back  and  breast  and  wings, 
Proud  with  the  dignity  plumage  brings, 

Opening  their  four  mouths  wide. 

Stooping  low  to  scan  my  prize, 
Watching  the  motions  with  curious  eyes, 
Dropping  my  berries  in  glad  surprise, 

A  plaintive  sound  I  heard. 
And  looking  up  at  the  mournful  call, 
I  spied  on  a  beech  near  the  old  stone  wall, 
Trembling  and  twittering,  ready  to  fall, 

The  poor  little  mother-bird. 

With  grief  and  terror  her  heart  was  wrung, 
And  while  to  the  slender  bough  she  clung, 
She  felt  that  the  lives  of  her  birdlings  hung 

On  a  still  more  slender  thread. 
0  Ah,  birdie  !  "  I  said,  "  if  you  only  knew 
My  heart  was  tender  and  warm  and  true  ! " 
But  the  thought  that  I  loved  the  birdlings  too 

Never  entered  her  small  brown  head. 


394  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  so  through  this  world  of  ours  we  go, 
Bearing  our  burdens  of  needless  woe ; 
Many  a  heart  beating  heavy  and  slow 

Under  its  load  of  care. 
But  oh,  if  we  only,  only  knew 
That  God  was  tender,  warm,  and  true, 
And  that  he  loved  us  through  and  through, 

Our  hearts  would  be  lighter  than  air. 


WABASH  VIOLETS. 

WHAT  ?    Sho' !    You  don't !    Do  you  mean  it,  though  ? 

Are  you  really  goin'  with  me 
To  meetin'  in  all  that  bandbox  rig  ? 

I  'm  so  awkward,  don't  you  see  ? 
A  reg'lar  Hoosier.    Yes,  I  know 

We  're  cousins,  as  you  say ; 
But  I  growed  wild  on  the  Wabash  here, 

And  you  like  a  sweet  nosegay 

Sprung  sprightly-like  to  life  in  the  air 

Miles  away,  in  Boston  town. 
Why,  'twould  be  like  a  schoolma'am,  college  bred, 

A-walking  with  a  clown. 
No,  I  don't  guess  that 's  just  what  I  'd  say ; 

But  —  what  ?  what 's  that  ?     As  we  stroll 
We  '11  gather  some  violets  by  the  way, 

To  put  in  my  buttonhole  ? 

Do  you  know,  I  don't  exactly  see 

What  you  find  in  them  little  things 
To  make  you  go  as  crazy  as  though 

They  was  like  an  angel's  wings  ? 
If  they  was  bright  and  handsome,  now, 

Like  a  poppy  or  a  marigold, 
I  'd  work  like  a  man,  and  gather  for  you 

All  that  your  arms  could  hold. 

It 's  culture  that  makes  one  like  such  flowers  ? 

Yes,  I  reckon  that 's  'bout  so  ; 
But  that 's  a  yarb  that  grows  more  peart 

In  Boston  than  here,  you  know. 
But  some  here,  too,  thinks  a  right  smart  chance 

Of  violets,  cousin  Kate  — 
Like  school  ma'ams,  you  know,  and  notional  gals, 

As  takes  their  poetry  straight. 

Don't  know  but  I  might  have  liked  'em  too, 

But  for  memories  of  a  thing 
That  happened  a  dozen  years  ago, 

In  the  days  of  early  spring. 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.         395 

It  seems  like  a  dream.    Jim  Brown  and  I 

We  used  to  spend  whole  hours, 
When  we  could  n't  find  anything  else  to  do, 

A-battlin'  with  them  flowers. 

We  called  them  "  roosters."    Don't  you  see 

How  their  necks  lap  over,  so  ? 
And  then,  when  we  pull,  the  strongest  one 

Jerks  the  other's  head  off.     Oh, 
The  fun  we  had  !     We  'd  gather  piles, 

And  hunt  for  the  largest  ones, 
And  then  sit  down  on  a  rotten  log 

And  fight  like  bloody  Huns. 

The  violets'  heads  would  drop  in  a  pire, 

Till  I  sometimes  think  a  peck 
Or  more  would  be  scraped  up  side  of  the  log, 

Where  the  war  was  neck  and  neck. 
A  joke  ?  Well,  I  reckon.  ...  But  that 's  why 

1  can't  give  myself  away 
O'er  the  little  posies,  just  as  though 

They  was  pinies  or  poppies  gay. 

Well,  yes,  I  reckon  there  's  a  lesson  here, 

If  you  're  bound  to  look  for  one  ; 
There 's  many  a  page  of  poetry  sp'iled 

From  a-draggin'  it  down  to  fun. 
If  the  fountain-head  of  youth  is  foul, 

Its  stream  through  life  will  be  riled  ; 
Because  these  flowers  were  "  roosters  "  then, 

My  love  for  them  now  is  sp'iled. 

EARL  MARBLE, 


THE  WATER-MILL. 

LISTEN  to  the  water-mill 

Through  the  livelong  day ; 
How  the  clanking  of  the  wheels 

Wears  the  hours  away ! 
Languidly  the  autumn  wind 

Stirs  the  greenwood  leaves ; 
From  the  fields  the  reapers  sing, 

Binding  up  the  sheaves  ; 
And  a  proverb  haunts  my  mind, 

As  a  spell  is  cast : 
"  The  mill  will  never  grind 

With  the  water  that  has  passed." 

Take  the  lesson  to  thyself, 

Living  heart  and  true  ; 
Golden  years  are  floating  by, 

Youth  is  passing  too  j 


396  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Learn  to  make  the  most  of  life, 

Lose  no  happy  day; 
Time  will  never  bring  thee  back 

Chances  swept  away. 
Leave  no  tender  word  unsaid  ; 

Love  while  life  shall  last,  — 
"The  mill  will  never  grind 

With  the  water  that  has  passed." 

Work  while  yet  the  daylight  shines, 

Man  of  strength  and  will  ; 
Never  does  the  streamlet  glide 

Useless  by  the  mill. 
Wait  not  till  to-morrow's  sun 

Beams  upon  the  way  ; 
All  that  thou  canst  call  thine  own 

Lies  in  thy  to-day. 
Power,  intellect,  and  health 

May  not,  cannot  last ; 
"  The  mill  will  never  grind 

With  the  water  that  has  passed. " 

Oh,  the  wasted  hours  of  life 

That  have  drifted  by  ; 
Oh,  the  good  we  might  have  done, 

Lost  without  a  sigh ; 
Love  that  we  might  once  have  saved 

By  a  single  word  ; 
Thoughts  conceived,  but  never  penned, 

Perishing  unheard. 
Take  the  proverb  to  thine  heart, 

Take  !  oh,  hold  it  fast !  — 
"  The  mill  will  never  grind 

With  the  water  that  has  passed." 

SARAH  DOUDNEY. 

NOTE. — The  authorship  of  this  poem  has  been  credited  with  singular 
persistency  to  Gen.  Daniel  C.  McCallum,  but  without  justification. 


STONE  THE  WOMAN,  LET  THE  MAN 
GO   FREE. 

YES,  stone  the  woman,  let  the  man  go  free ! 

Draw  back  your  skirts,  lest  they  perchance  may  touch 

Her  garment  as  she  passes  ;  but  to  him 

Put  forth  a  willing  hand  to  clasp  with  his 

That  led  her  to  destruction  and  disgrace. 

Shut  up  from  her  the  sacred  ways  of  toil, 

That  she  no  more  may  win  an  honest  meal ; 

But  ope  to  him  all  honorable  paths 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.         397 

Where  he  may  win  distinction ;  give  to  him 

Fair,  pressed-down  measures  of  life's  sweetest  joys. 

Pass  her,  O  maiden,  with  a  pure,  proud  face, 

If  she  puts  out  a  poor,  polluted  palm  ; 

But  lay  thy  hand  in  his  on  bridal  day, 

And  swear  to  cling  to  him  with  wifely  love 

And  tender  reverence.     Trust  him  who  led 

A  sister  woman  to  a  fearful  fate. 

Yes,  stone  the  woman,  let  the  man  go  free  ! 
Let  one  soul  suffer  for  the  guilt  of  two  — 
It  is  the  doctrine  of  a  hurried  world, 
Too  out  of  breath  for  holding  balances 
Where  nice  distinctions  and  injustices 
Are  calmly  weighed.     But  ah,  how  will  it  be 
On  that  strange  day  of  final  fire  and  flame, 
When  men  shall  wither  with  a  mystic  fear, 
And  all  shall  stand  before  the  one  true  Judge  ? 
Shall  sex  make  then  a  difference  in  sin  ? 
Shall  he,  the  searcher  of  the  hidden  heart, 
In  his  eternal  and  divine  decree 
Condemn  the  woman  and  forgive  the  man  ? 


THE  BAR-TENDER'S  STORY. 

WHEN  I  knowed  him  at  first  there  was  suthin', 

A  sort  of  a  general  air, 
That  was  wery  particular  pleasin', 

And  what  you  might  call  —  debonair. 
I  'm  aware  that  expression  is  Frenchy, 

And  highfalutin,  perhaps, 
Which  accounts  that  I  have  the  acquaintance 

Of  several  quality  chaps, 

And  such  is  the  way  they  converses. 

But,  speakin*  of  this  here  young  man,  — 
Apparently  natur'  had  shaped  him 

On  a  sort  of  a  liberal  plan  ; 
Had  give  him  good  looks  and  good  language, 

And  manners  expressin'  with  vim 
His  belief  in  hisself,  and  that  others 

Was  just  as  good  fellers  as  him. 

Well,  this  chap  was  n't  stuck  up,  by  no  means, 

Nor  inclined  to  be  easy  put  down ; 
And  was  thought  to  be  jolly  agreeable 

Wherever  he  went  around  town. 
He  used  to  come  in  for  his  beverage 

Quite  regular  every  night ; 
And  I  took  a  consid'able  interest 

In  mixing  the  thing  about  right 


398  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

A  judicious  indulgence  in  liquids 

It  is  nat'ral  for  me  to  admire  ; 
But  I  'm  free  to  admit  that  for  some  folks 

They  is  pison  complete  and  entire  ; 
For  rum,  though  a  cheerful  companion, 

As  a  boss  is  the  Devil's  own  chum ; 
And  this  chap,  I  am  sorry  to  state  it, 

Was  floored  in  a  wrastle  with  rum. 

For  he  got  to  increasin'  his  doses, 

And  took  'em  more  often,  he  did,  — 
And  it  growed  on  him  faster  and  faster, 

Till  inter  a  bummer  he  slid. 
I  was  grieved  to  observe  this  here  feller 

A  shovin'  hisself  down  the  grade, 
And  I  lectured  him  onto  it  sometimes, 

At  the  risk  of  its  injurin'  trade. 

At  last  he  got  thunderin'  seedy, 

And  lost  his  respect  for  hisself, 
And  all  his  high  notions  of  honor 

Was  bundled  away  on  the  shelf. 
But  at  times  he  was  dreadful  remorseful, 

Whenever  he  'd  stop  for  to  think, 
And  he  'd  swear  to  reform  hisself  frequent, 

And  end  it  by  takin'  a  drink. 

What  saved  that  young  feller  ?    A  woman  I 

She  done  it  the  singlerest  way,  — 
He  come  into  the  bar-room  one  evenin' 

(He  had  n't  been  drinkin'  that  day), 
And  sot  hisself  down  to  a  table, 

With  a  terrible  sorrowful  face, 
And  he  sot  there  a  groanin'  repeated, 

And  callin'  hisself  a  gone  case. 

He  was  thinking  and  thinkin',  and  thinking 

And  cussin'  hisself  and  his  fate, 
And  ended  his  thinkin',  as  usual, 

By  orderin*  a  Bourbon  straight. 
He  was  holdhr  the  glass  in  his  fingers, 

When  into  the  place,  from  the  street, 
There  come  a  young  gal  like  a  spirit, 

With  a  face  that  was  wonderful  sweet ; 

And  she  glided  right  up  to  the  table, 

And  took  the  glass  gently  away, 
And  she  says  to  him,  "  George,  it  is  over ; 

I  am  only  a  woman  to-day  ! 
I  rejected  you  once  in  my  anger, 

But  I  come  to  you,  lowly  and  meek  ; 
For  I  can't  live  without  you,  my  darling ; 

I  thought  I  was  strong,  but  I  'm  weak. 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.         399 

"  You  are  bound  in  a  terrible  bondage, 

And  I  come,  love,  to  share  it  with  you  ; 
Is  there  shame  in  the  deed  ?    I  can  bear  it, 

For,  at  last,  to  my  love  I  am  true ; 
I  have  turned  from  the  home  of  my  childhood, 

And  I  come  to  you,  lover  and  friend, 
Leaving  comfort,  contentment,  and  honor ; 

And  I  '11  stay  till  the  terrible  end. 

"  Is  there  hunger  and  want  in  the  future  ? 

I  will  share  them  with  you,  and  not  shrink  I 
And  together  we  '11  join  in  the  pleasures, 

The  woes,  and  the  dangers  of  drink  !  " 
Then  she  raised  up  the  glass,  firm  and  steady, 

But  her  face  was  as  pale  as  the  dead,  — 
"  Here  's  to  wine,  and  the  joys  of  carousals, 

The  songs  and  the  laughter,"  she  said. 

Then  he  riz  up,  his  face  like  a  tempest, 

And  took  the  glass  out  of  her  hand, 
And  slung  it  away,  stern  and  savage,  — 

And,  I  tell  you,  his  manner  was  grand  ! 
And  he  says,  "  I  have  done  with  it,  Nellie, 

And  I  '11  turn  from  the  ways  I  have  trod, 
And  I  '11  live  to  be  worthy  of  you,  dear, 

So  help  me,  a  merciful  God  !  " 

What  more  was  remarked,  it  is  needless 

For  me  to  attempt  to  relate  ; 
It  was  some  time  ago  since  it  happened, 

But  the  sequel  is  easy  to  state  : 
I  seen  that  same  feller  last  Monday, 

Lookin'  nobby  and  han'some  and  game  ; 
He  was  wheeling  a  vehicle,  gen'lemen, 

And  a  baby  was  into  the  same. 

DAVID  L.  PROUDFIT. 


DUTY'S   REWARD. 

IT  was  an  English  summer  day, 

Some  six  or  seven  years  ago, 
That  a  pointsman  before  his  cabin  paced, 

With  a  listless  step,  and  slow. 
He  lit  his  pipe  —  there  was  plenty  of  time  — 

In  his  work  there  was  nothing  new ; 
Just  to  watch  the  signals  and  shift  the  points 

When  the  next  train  came  in  view. 

He  leant  'gainst  his  cabin  and  smoked  away, 

He  was  used  to  lounge  and  wait ; 
Twelve  hours  at  a  stretch  he  must  mind  those  points, 

And  down-trains  were  mostly  late  I 


400  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

A  rumble,  a  roar,  —  "  She 's  coining  now  — 

She  's  truer  to  time  to-day  !  " 
He  turns,  and  not  far  between  the  rails 

Sees  his  youngest  boy  at  play. 

I 
Not  far,  but  too  far!    The  train  is  at  hand, 

And  the  child  is  crawling  there, 
And  patting  the  ground  with  crows  of  delight  — 

And  not  a  moment  to  spare  ! 
His  face  was  dead  white,  but  his  purpose  firm, 

As  straight  to  his  post  he  trod, 
And  shifted  the  points  and  saved  the  down-train, 

And  trusted  his  child  to  God. 

There 's  a  rush  in  his  ears,  though  the  train  has  passed ; 

He  gropes,  for  he  cannot  see, 
To  the  place  where  the  laughing  baby  crawled, 

Where  the  mangled  limbs  must  be. 
But  he  hears  a  cry  that  is  only  of  fear, 

His  joy  seems  too  great  to  Dear ; 
For  his  duty  done,  God  saw  to  his  son  — 

The  train  had  not  touched  a  hair. 


GENTLEMAN   JIM. 

IN  the  Diamond  Shaft  worked  Gentleman  Jim, 

Handsome  of  face  and  stout  of  limb, 

Coarse  in  dress  ;  but  something  in  him, 

Whether  down  in  the  coal  mine,  soiled  and  grim, 

Or  wandering  alone  in  holiday  time, 

Won  the  love  and  respect  of  all  in  that  clime. 

He  had  no  sweetheart,  he  had  no  wife, 
Some  mighty  sorrow  had  dimmed  his  life  — 
His  earnings  hardly  won,  and  small, 
Were  aye  at  the  orphans'  and  widows'  call  — 
Of  those  who  had  perished  in  shaft  or  winze, 
He  was  the  friend  of  all  living  things, 
And  moving  along  in  those  toilsome  ways, 
He  wore  the  demeanor  of  gentler  days. 

In  April  last,  when  the  mine  fell  in, 
Beneath  the  timbers  stood  Gentleman  Jim  ; 
With  a  giant  grasp  he  flung  two  of  the  boys 
Clear  of  the  danger — with  deafening  noise 
The  shaft  gave  way  on  every  side  ; 
The  boys  were  safe,  but  Jim  —  he  died ; 
Died  as  men  die,  and  will  die  again, 
Giving  their  lives  for  their  fellow-men. 


EVERY-DAY  LIGHTS  AND  SHADOWS.         401 

When  rocks  and  timbers  were  cleared  away, 
And  Jim  borne  up  to  the  light  of  day, 
They  took  from  his  bosom,  stained  with  blood, 
Two  withered  leaves  and  a  withered  bud 
Pinned  on  a  card.     "  Toute  a  toi  —  Marie," 
Was  written  beneath  them ;  beneath  it  he, 
On  this  relic  his  heart  for  years  had  worn, 
Had  written, "  All  withered  —  except  the  thorn." 

What  life  romance,  what  story  of  wrong, 
This  man  had  locked  up  in  his  soul  so  long, 
None  who  loved  him  may  ever  know  ; 
But  the  tale  of  his  glorious  chivalric  deed 
Shall  not  perish  as  long  as  men  hold  this  creed,  — - 
That  the  hero  whose  blood  for  his  kind  is  shed 
Wins  a  deathless  fame  and  an  honored  bed ; 
A  monument  grander  than  sculptor  ere  gave, 
In  the  glory  that  hallows  the  martyr's  grave. 
San  Francisco  Mail.  DANIEL  O'CoNNELL. 


FATHER   JOHN. 

HE  preached  but  little ;  argued  less ; 
But  if  a  girl  was  in  distress, 
Or  if  a  kinchen  came  to  grief, 
Or  trouble  tackled  rogue  or  thief, 
There  Father  John  was  sure  to  be, 
To  blunt  the  edge  of  misery ; 
And  somehow  managed  every  time 
To  ease  despair  or  lessen  crime. 

That  corner  house  was  allus  known 
Around  these  parts  as  Podger's  Own, 
Till  two  pals  in  a  drunken  fight 
Set  the  whole  thing  afire  one  night ; 
And  where  it  stood  they  hypered  round, 
And  blasted  rocks  and  shovelled  ground 
To  build  the  factory  over  there  — 
The  one  you  see ;  and  that  is  where 
Poor  Father  John  —  God  give  him  rest !  - 
Preached  his  last  sermon  and  his  best. 

One  summer's  day  the  thing  was  done ; 
The  workmen  set  a  blast  and  run  ; 
They  ain't  so  keerful  here,  I  guess, 
Where  lives  ain't  worth  a  cent  apiece, 
As  in  the  wards  where  things  are  dear, 
And  nothink  ain't  so  cheap  as  here ; 
Leastwise,  the  first  they  seed  or  knowed, 
A  little  chick  had  crossed  the  road ; 
26 


402  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

He  seemed  to  be  just  out  of  bed  — 
Bare-legged,  with  nothink  on  his  head ; 
Chubby  and  cunnin',  with  his  hair 
Blown  criss-cross  by  the  mornin'  air ; 
Draggin'  a  tin  horse  by  a  string, 
Without  much  care  for  anything ; 
A  talkin'  to  hisself  for  joy, — 
A  toddlin',  keerless,  baby  boy. 

Right  for  the  crawlin'  fuse  he  went, 
As  though  to  find  out  what  it  meant ; 
Trudgin'  toward  the  fatal  spot 
Till  less  'n  three  feet  off  he  got 
From  where  the  murderin'  thing  lay  still, 
Just  waitin'  for  to  spring  and  kill  — 
Marching  along  toward  his  grave, 
And  not  a  soul  dared  go  to  save  1 

They  hollered  —  all  they  durst  to  do ; 
He  turned  and  laughed,  and  then  bent  low 
To  set  the  horsey  on  his  feet, 
And  went  right  on  a  crowin'  sweet  1 
And  then  a  death-like  silence  grew 
On  all  the  tremblin',  coward  crew, 
As  each  swift  second  seemed  the  last 
Before  the  roaring  of  the  blast. 

Just  then  some  chance  or  purpose  brought 
The  priest.     He  saw,  and  quick  as  thought 
He  ran  and  caught  the  child  and  turned 
Just  as  the  slumberin*  powder  burned, 
And  shot  the  shattered  rocks  around, 
And  with  its  thunder  shook  the  ground. 

The  child  was  sheltered  !    Father  John 
Was  hurt  to  death.     Without  a  groan, 
He  set  the  baby  down,  then  went 
A  step  or  two ;  but  life  was  spent. 
He  tottered,  looked  up  to  the  skies 
With  ashen  face,  but  strange,  glad  eyes. 
"  My  love,  I  come  !  "  was  all  he  said, 
Sank  slowly  down,  and  so  was  dead  I 

Stranger,  he  left  a  memory  here 
That  will  be  felt  for  many  a  year : 
And  since  that  day  this  ward  has  been 
More  human  in  its  dens  of  sin. 


PART    XV. 
HDac  anb 


But  three  feet  good  of  that  old  wood, 

So  scarred  in  war,  and  rotten, 
Was  thrown  aside,  unknown  its  pride. 

Its  honors  all  forgotten  : 

When,  as  in  shade  the  block  was  laid, 

Two  robins,  perching  on  it, 
Thought  that  place  best  to  build  a  nest,— 

They  planned  it,  and  have  done  it: 

The  splintered  spot  which  lodged  a  shot 

Is  lined  with  moss  and  feather, 
And,  chirping  loud,  a  callow  brood 

Are  nestling  up  together. 

How  full  of  bliss,  —  how  peaceful  is 

That  spot  the  soft  nest  caging, 
Where  war's  alarms  and  blood-stained  arms 

Were  once  around  it  raging. 

TUPPER. 


PART  XV. 

JDar  anti 


DRIVING  HOME  THE   COWS. 

OUT  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed  grass 
He  turned  them  into  the  river-lane  ; 

One  after  another  he  let  them  pass, 
And  fastened  the  meadow  bars  again. 

Under  the  willows  and  over  the  hill 
He  patiently  followed  their  sober  pace  ; 

The  merry  whistle  for  once  was  still, 

And  something  shadowed  the  sunny  face. 

Only  a  boy  !  and  his  father  had  said 
He  never  would  let  his  youngest  go  ; 

Two  already  were  lying  dead 

Under  the  feet  of  the  trampling  foe. 

But  after  the  evening  work  was  done, 

And  the  frogs  were  loud  in  the  meadow-swamp, 
Over  his  shoulder  he  slung  his  gun 

And  stealthily  followed  the  foot-path  damp, 

Across  the  clover  and  through  the  wheat, 
With  resolute  heart  and  purpose  grim, 

Though  cold  was  the  dew  to  the  hurrying  feet, 
And  the  blind  bat's  flitting  startled  him. 

Thrice  since  then  had  the  lane  been  white, 
And  the  orchards  sweet  with  apple-bloom  ; 

And  now,  when  the  cows  came  back  at  night^ 
The  feeble  father  drove  them  home. 


406  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

For  news  had  come  to  the  lonely  farm 

That  three  were  lying  where  two  had  lain ; 

And  the  old  man's  tremulous,  palsied  arm 
Could  never  lean  on  a  son's  again. 

The  summer  days  grew  cold  and  late, 

He  went  for  the  cows,  when  the  work  was  done ; 

But  down  the  lane,  as  he  opened  the  gate, 
He  saw  them  coming,  one  by  one,  — 

Brindle,  Ebony,  Speckle,  and  Bess, 

Shaking  their  horns  in  the  evening  wind ; 

Cropping  the  buttercups  out  of  the  grass  — 
But  who  was  it  following  close  behind  ? 

Loosely  swung  in  the  idle  air 

The  empty  sleeve  of  army  blue ; 
And  worn  and  pale,  from  the  crisping  hair 

Looked  out  a  face  that  the  father  knew. 

For  Southern  prisons  will  sometimes  yawn, 
And  yield  their  dead  unto  life  again  ; 

And  the  day  that  comes  with  a  cloudy  dawn 
In  golden  glory  at  last  may  wane. 

The  great  tears  sprang  to  their  meeting  eyes ; 

For  the  heart  must  speak  when  the  lips  are  dumb, 
And  under  the  silent  evening  skies 

Together  they  followed  the  cattle  home. 

KATE  PUTNAM  OSGOQD. 


ROLL-CALL. 

"  CORPORAL  GREEN  ! "  the  orderly  cried ; 
"  Here  ! "  was  the  answer,  loud  and  clear, 
From  the  lips  of  the  soldier  who  stood  near ; 

And  "  Here  "  was  the  word  the  next  replied. 

"  Cyrus  Drew  !  "  —  then  a  silence  fell  — 
This  time  no  answer  followed  the  call ; 
Only  his  rear  man  had  seen  him  fall, 

Killed  or  wounded ;  he  could  not  tell. 

There  they  stood  in  the  falling  light, 

These  men  of  battle  with  grave,  dark  looks, 
As  plain  to  be  read  as  open  books, 

While  slowly  gathered  the  shades  of  night. 


WAR  AND  PEACE.  407 

The  fern  on  the  hillsides  was  splashed  with  blood, 
And  down  in  the  corn  where  the  poppies  grew 
Were  redder  stains  than  the  poppies  knew, 

And  crimson  dyed  was  the  river's  flood. 

For  the  foe  had  crossed  from  the  other  side 
That  day,  in  the  face  of  a  murderous  fire, 
That  swept  them  down  in  its  terrible  ire, 

And  their  life-blood  went  to  color  the  tide. 

"  Herbert  Kline  !  "    At  the  call  there  came 
Two  stalwart  soldiers  into  the  line, 
Bearing  between  them  this  Herbert  Kline, 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  to  answer  his  name. 

"  Ezra  Kerr !  "  —  and  a  voice  answered,  "  Here  !  " 
"  Hiram  Kerr  !  "  —  but  no  man  replied. 
They  were  brothers,  these  two ;  the  sad  winds  sighed, 

And  a  shudder  crept  through  the  cornfield  near. 

"  Ephraim  Deane !  "  —  then  a  soldier  spoke  ; 

"Deane  carried  our  regiment's  colors,"  he  said; 

"  Where  our  ensign  was  shot,  I  left  him  dead, 
Just  after  the  enemy  wavered  and  broke. 

"  Close  to  the  roadside  his  body  lies ; 

I  paused  a  moment  and  gave  him  drink  ; 

He  murmured  his  mother's  name,  I  think, 
And  death  came  with  it  and  closed  his  eyes." 

'T  was  a  victory,  yes,  but  it  cost  us  dear  — 
For  that  company's  roll,  when  called  at  night, 
Of  a  hundred  men  who  went  into  the  fight, 
Numbered  but  twenty  that  answered  "  Here  1 " 
San  Francisco  Argonaut.  N.  G.  SHEPARD. 


THE  COUNTERSIGN  WAS   MARY. 

'T  WAS  near  the  break  of  day,  but  still 

The  moon  was  shining  brightly ; 
The  west  wind  as  it  passed  the  flowers 

Set  each  one  swaying  lightly ; 
The  sentry  slow  paced  to  and  fro, 

A  faithful  night-watch  keeping, 
While  in  the  tents  behind  him  stretched 

His  comrades,  —  all  were  sleeping. 

Slow  to  and  fro  the  sentry  paced, 
His  musket  on  his  shoulder ; 

But  not  a  thought  of  death  or  war 
Was  with  the  brave  young  soldier. 


408  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Ah,  no !  his  heart  was  far  away 

Where,  on  a  Western  prairie, 
A  rose-twined  cottage  stood.     That  night 

The  countersign  was  "  Mary." 

And  there  his  own  true  love  he  saw, 

Her  blue  eyes  kindly  beaming, 
Above  them,  on  her  sun-kissed  brow, 

Her  curls  like  sunshine  gleaming :  — 
He  heard  her  singing,  as  she  churned 

The  butter  in  the  dairy, 
The  song  he  loved  the  best.    That  night 

The  countersign  was  "  Mary." 

"  Oh,  for  one  kiss  from  her !  "  he  sighed, 

When,  up  the  lone  road  glancing, 
He  spied  a  form,  a  little  form, 

With  faltering  steps  advancing ; 
And  as  it  neared  him,  silently 

He  gazed  at  it  in  wonder ; 
Then  dropped  his  musket  to  his  hand, 

And  challenged,  —  "  Who  goes  yonder  ?  n 

Still  on  it  came.    "  Not  one  step  more, 

Be  you  man,  child,  or  fairy, 
Unless  you  give  the  countersign  ; 

Halt !  who  goes  there  !  "  —  "  'T  is  Mary," 
A  sweet  voice  cried,  and  in  his  arms 

The  girl  he  'd  left  behind  him 
Half  fainting  fell.     O'er  many  miles 

She  'd  bravely  toiled  to  find  him. 

"  I  heard  that  you  were  wounded,  dear," 

She  sobbed.     "  My  heart  was  breaking ; 
I  could  not  stay  a  moment,  but, 

All  other  ties  forsaking, 
I  travelled,  by  my  grief  made  strong, 

Kind  Heaven  watching  o'er  me, 
Until  —  unhurt  and  well  ?  "    "  Yes,  love  — 

At  last  you  stood  before  me." 

"  They  told  me  that  I  could  not  pass 

The  lines  to  seek  my  lover 
Before  day  fairly  came  ;  but  I 

Pressed  on  ere  night  was  over, 
And,  as  I  told  my  name,  I  found 

The  way  free  as  our  prairie." 
"Because,  thank  God  !  to-night,"  he  said, 

"  The  countersign  is  '  Mary.' " 

MARGARET  EYTINGE. 


WAR  AND  PEACE.  409 


OUR  LAST  TOAST. 

WE  meet  'neath  the  sounding  rafter, 

And  the  walls  around  are  bare  ; 
As  they  shout  to  our  peals  of  laughter, 

It  seems  that  the  dead  are  there. 
But  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

We  drink  to  our  comrades'  eyes, 
Quaff  a  cup  to  the  dead  already, 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 

Not  here  are  the  goblets  glowing  — 

Not  here  is  the  vintage  sweet ; 
'Tis  cold  as  our  hearts  are  growing, 

And  dark  as  the  doom  we  meet. 
But  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  1 

And  soon  shall  our  pulses  rise,  — *• 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already, 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Not  a  sigh  for  the  lot  that  darkles, 

Not  a  tear  for  the  friends  that  sink ; 
We  '11  fall  'neath  the  wine-cup's  sparkles 

As  mute  as  the  wine  we  drink. 
So,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  I 

'T  is  this  that  respite  buys, 
One  cup  to  the  dead  already, 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 

Time  was  when  we  frowned  at  others  — 

We  thought  we  were  wiser  then  ; 
Ha,  ha  !  let  them  think  of  their  mothers, 

Who  hope  to  see  them  again. 
No,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  ! 

The  thoughtless  here  are  wise ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already, 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

Here 's  many  a  hand  that 's  shaking ; 

Here 's  many  a  cheek  that 's  sunk, 
But  soon,  though  our  hearts  are  breaking, 

They  '11  burn  with  the  wine  we  've  drunk. 
So,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady! 

'T  is  here  the  revival  lies  ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already, 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

There 's  a  mist  on  the  glass  congealing  — 
'T  is  the  hurricane's  fiery  breath  ; 

And  thus  doth  the  warmth  of  feeling 
Turn  to  ice  in  the  grasp  of  death. 


410  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Ho,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady ! 

For  a  moment  the  vapor  flies ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already, 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  I 

Who  dreads  to  the  dust  returning, 

Who  shrinks  from  the  sable  shore, 
Where  the  high  and  haughty  yearning 

Of  the  soul  shall  sing  no  more  ? 
Ho,  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady ! 

The  world  is  a  world  of  lies  ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already, 

Hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies  ! 

Cut  off  from  the  land  that  bore  us, 

Betrayed  by  the  land  we  find, 
Where  the  brightest  have  gone  before  us, 

And  the  dullest  remain  behind. 
Stand  —  stand  to  your  glasses,  steady  I 

*T  is  all  we  Ve  got  to  prize  ; 
A  cup  to  the  dead  already, 

And  hurrah  for  the  next  that  dies ! 

BARTHOLOMEW  DOWLING. 


AT  LAST. 

O'ER  the  sunlit  hills  of  Berkshire  drooped  the  drowsy  summer 

calm, 

Filling  all  the  glens  and  valleys  with  the  silence  like  a  psalm; 
Like  an  angel-chanted  anthem  thrilling  toward  a  poet's  ear, 
Till  he  dreams  the  mystic  rhythm  God  alone  can  live  and  hear. 

By  a  little  spring  that  bubbled  from  beneath  a  towering  pine, 
Hidden  half  and  overshaded  by  the  sprays  of  blackberry  vine, 
Stood  a  man  and  maiden,  waiting  till  the  parting  hour  should 

come, 
When  their  clasping  hands  must  sever  at  the  rattle  of  the  drum, 

He  to  offer  life  for  duty  on  the  swart  Virginian  plain, 

She  to  watch  and  hope  his  coming  through  the  sunshine  and  the 

rain. 

Very  few  the  words  they  uttered  as  they  waited  hand  in  hand, 
But  the  silence  throbbed  with  voices  that  their  hearts  could 

understand. 

Tender  voices  of  the  past  time,  and  the  days  forever  done,  — 
Days  divinely  sweet  and  holy,  when  their  love  had  just  begun ; 
Hopeful  voices  of  the  future  whispering  of  the  joys  to  be, 
When  the  clanging  calls  of  battle  hushed  to  hymns  of  victory. 


WAR  AND  PEACE.  41! 

Sank  the  day  into  the  sunset,  and  there  came  the  tread  of  feet, 
Marching  to  the  sound  of  music,  up  the  length  of  level  street ; 
Then  he  drew  her  to  his  bosom,  parting  backward  from  her  facfr 
The  long  golden  hair,  whose  halo  made  a  glory  in  the  place  ; 

Almost  calm  above  his  passion,  as  he  whispered,  "  I  must  go  , 
You  will  send  me  letters  often  ?  kiss  them  where  you  sign  them 

—  so! 
And  if  I  no  more  come  homeward,"  trembling  grew  his  lips  and 

white, 
"  All  these  happy  days  together,  you  will  not  forget  them  quite  ? " 

Answer  none  of  word  or  gesture  for  a  moment  did  she  deign. 
Save  the  mute,  pathetic  promise  of  her  eyes'  remonstrant  pain. 
Then,  because  her  love  sat  higher  than  his  doubts  could  lift  their 

fronts, 
She  drew  down  his  lips  and  kissed  them,  as  a  woman  kisses  once. 

"  Would  to  God,"  she  said,  "  my  lover,  that  my  life  for  thine 

might  be ! 
But  where'er  his  voice  shall  call  thee,  in  his  time  I  '11  follow 

thee." 
That  was  all.    The  soldiers'  tramping  passed  and  slowly  died 

away, 
And  she  knelt  beside  the  pine-tree  all  alone  to  weep  and  pray. 

Came  the  solemn  twilight  gemming  sky  and  stream  with  starry 

spheres, 

Came  the  tender  twilight  dropping  over  all  its  dewy  tears  ; 
And  she  sought  once  more  her  duties  and  the  dull  routine  of  life, 
Tenfold  harder  in  the  bearing  than  the  battle's  frenzied  strife. 

Days  of  forced  and  weary  marches  and  of  combat  fierce  and 

red, 
Nights  of  bivouac  round  the  camp-fire  with  the  star  alone 

o'erhead, 

Months  of  hopeless,  hungry  torture  in  the  Southern  prison-pen, 
And  a  dumb,  dead  face  that  never  love  should  wake  to  life  again. 

On  the  frozen  hills  of  Berkshire  white  the  snows  of  winter  lie, 
Scarlet  red  against  the  sunset  where  their  summits  pierce  the  sky. 
In  a  little  country  churchyard  climbing  up  the  side  of  one, 
Where  the  first  arbutus  blossoms,  and  the  grass  greens  first 
i'the  sun, 

Side  by  side  two  graves  are  sleeping.    Over  one  the  flowers  have 

grown 
Ten  long  years,  and  bloomed  and  withered,  and  the  autumn 

leaves  have  blown. 

On  the  headstone  of  the  other  the  first  wreaths  have  hardly  dried, 
Where  at  last  the  soldier's  sweetheart  slumbers  by  her  lover's 

side. 


412  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

EACH  thin  hand  resting  on  a  grave, 

Her  lips  apart  in  prayer, 
A  mother  knelt,  and  left  her  tears 

Upon  the  violets  there. 
O'er  many  a  rood  of  vale  and  lawn, 

Of  hill  and  forest  gloom, 
The  reaper  Death  had  revelled  in 

His  fearful  harvest  home. 
The  last  unquiet  summer  shone 

Upon  a  fruitless  fray  ; 
From  yonder  forest  charged  the  blue  — 

Down  yonder  slope  the  gray. 

The  hush  of  death  was  on  the  scene, 

And  sunset  o'er  the  dead, 
In  that  oppressive  stillness, 

A  pall  of  glory  spread. 
I  know  not,  dare  not  question  how 

I  met  the  ghastly  glare 
Of  each  upturned  and  stirless  face 

That  shrunk  and  whitened  there. 
I  knew  my  noble  boys  had  stood 

Through  all  that  withering  day, 
I  knew  that  Willie  wore  the  blue, 

That  Harry  wore  the  gray. 

I  thought  of  Willie's  clear  blue  eye, 

His  wavy  hair  of  gold, 
That  clustered  on  a  fearless  brow 

Of  purest  Saxon  mould ; 
Of  Harry,  with  his  raven  locks 

And  eagle  glance  of  pride  ; 
Of  how  they  clasped  each  other's  hand 

And  left  their  mother's  side ; 
How  hand  in  hand  they  bore  my  prayers 

And  blessings  on  the  way  — 
A  noble  heart  beneath  the  blue, 

Another  'neath  the  gray. 

The  dead,  with  white  and  folded  hands, 

That  hushed  our  village  homes, 
I  Ve  seen  laid  calmly,  tenderly, 

Within  their  darkened  rooms  ; 
But  there  I  saw  distorted  limbs, 

And  many  an  eye  aglare, 
In  the  soft  purple  twilight  of 

The  thunder-smitten  air. 


WAR  AND  PEACE.  413 

Along  the  slope  and  on  the  sward 

In  ghastly  ranks  they  lay, 
And  there  was  blood  upon  the  blue 

And  blood  upon  the  gray. 

I  looked  and  saw  his  blood,  and  his  ; 

A  swift  and  vivid  dream 
Of  blended  years  flashed  o'er  me,  when, 

Like  some  cold  shadow,  came 
A  blindness  of  the  eye  and  brain  — 

The  same  that  seizes  one 
When  men  are  smitten  suddenly 

Who  overstare  the  sun  ; 
And  while,  blurred  with  the  sudden  stroke 

That  swept  my  soul,  I  lay, 
They  buried  Willie  in  his  blue, 

And  Harry  in  his  gray. 

The  shadows  fall  upon  their  graves ; 

They  fall  upon  my  heart ; 
And  through  the  twilight  of  this  soul 

Like  dews  the  tears  will  start ; 
The  starlight  comes  so  silently 

And  lingers  where  they  rest ; 
So  hope's  revealing  starlight  sinks 

And  shines  within  my  breast. 
They  ask  not  there,  where  yonder  heaven 

Smiles  with  eternal  day, 
Why  Willie  wore  the  loyal  blue, 

Why  Harry  wore  the  gray. 


THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY. 

BY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 

Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

Those  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

These  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 

In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,— 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 


414  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Under  the  roses,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch,  impartially  tender, 

On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  alL 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue, 

Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So  when  the  summer  calleth 

On  forest  and  field  of  grain, 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 

The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,— 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue, 

Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  upbraiding, 

The  generous  deed  was  done ; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading 

No  braver  battle  was  won. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day, — 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue, 

Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 

Nor  the  winding  river  be  red ; 
They  banish  our  anger  forever, 

When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead. 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day,  — 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 

Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

FRANCIS  MILES  FINCEL 


WAR  AND  PEACE.  4*5 

VANQUISHED. 
ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GENERAL  GRANT. 

NOT  by  ball  or  brand 

Sped  by  mortal  hand,  t 

Not  by  lightning  stroke 

When  fiery  tempests  broke,  — 

Not  'mid  ranks  of  war 

Fell  the  great  Conqueror. 

Unmoved,  undismayed, 

In  the  crash  and  carnage  of  the  cannonade  — 

Eye  that  dimmed  not,  hand  that  failed  not, 

Brain  that  swerved  not,  heart  that  quailed  not, 

Steel  nerve,  iron  form  — 

The  dauntless  spirit  that  o'erruled  the  storm. 

While  the  Hero  peaceful  slept 
A  foeman  to  his  chamber  crept, 
Lightly  to  the  slumberer  came, 
Touched  his  brow  and  breathed  his  name : 
O'er  the  stricken  form  there  passed 
Suddenly  an  icy  blast. 

The  Hero  woke  ;  rose  undismayed  ; 
Saluted  Death  —  and  sheathed  his  blade. 

The  Conqueror  of  a  hundred  fields 
To  a  mightier  Conqueror  yields; 
No  mortal  foeman's  blow 
Laid  the  great  soldier  low ; 
Victor  in  his  latest  breath  — 
Vanquished,  but  by  Death. 

FRANCIS  F.  BROWNE. 


THE  MESSAGE  OF  VICTORY. 

"  NEWS  to  the  king,  good  news  for  all !  " 
The  corn  is  trodden ,  the  river  runs  red. 
"  News  of  the  battle,"  the  heralds  call, 
"  We  have  won  the  field  ;  we  have  taken  the  town, 
We  have  beaten  the  rebels  and  crushed  them  down." 
And  the  dying  lie  with  the  dead. 

"  Who  was  my  bravest  ?  "  quoth  the  king. 

The  corn  is  trodden,  the  river  runs  red. 
"  Whom  shall  I  honor  for  this  great  thing  ?  " 
"  Threescore  were  best,  where  none  was  worst ; 
But  Walter  Wendulph  was  aye  the  first." 

And  the  dying  lie  with  the  dead. 


410  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

"  What  of  my  husband  ?  "  quoth  the  bride. 

The  corn  is  trodden,  the  river  is  red. 
"  Comes  he  to-morrow  ?  how  long  will  he  bide  ?  " 
"  Put  off  thy  bride-gear,  busk  thee  in  black; 
Walter  Wendulph  will  never  come  back." 

And  the  dying  lie  with  the  dead. 

AUGUSTA  WEBSTER. 


CONQUERED  AT  LAST. 

Shortly  after  the  last  yellow-fever  scourge  swept  up  the  Mississippi  Valley 
the  Mobile  News  offered  a  prize  for  the  poem  by  a  Southern  writer  which 
should  best  express  the  gratitude  of  the  Southern  heart  towards  the  people  of 
the  North  for  the  philanthropy  and  magnanimity  so  nobly  and  freely  displayed 
during  the  pestilence.  This  offer  called  forth  seventy-seven  compositions  from 
various  parts  of  the  South,  and  the  prize  was  finally  awarded  to  Miss  Maria 
L.  Eve,  of  Augusta,  Ga.,  the  author  of  Conquered  at  Last. 

You  came  to  us  once,  O  brothers,  in  wrath, 
And  rude  desolation  .followed  your  path. 

You  conquered  us  then,  but  only  in  part, 
For  a  stubborn  thing  is  the  human  heart. 

So  the  mad  wind  blows  in  his  might  and  main, 
And  the  forests  bend  to  his  breath  like  grain, 

Their  heads  in  the  dust  and  their  branches  broke  j 
But  how  shall  he  soften  their  hearts  of  oak  ? 

You  swept  o'er  our  land  like  the  whirlwind's  wing, 
But  the  human  heart  is  a  stubborn  thing. 

We  laid  down  our  arms,  we  yielded  our  will, 
But  our  heart  of  heart  was  unconquered  still. 

"  We  are  vanquished/'  we  said,  "  but  our  wounds  must  heal ;  " 
We  gave  you  our  swords,  but  our  hearts  were  steel. 

"  We  are  conquered,"  we  said,  but  our  hearts  were  sore, 
And  "  woe  to  the  conquered  "  on  every  door. 

But  the  spoiler  came  and  he  would  not  spare, 

And  the  angel  that  walketh  in  darkness  was  there :  — 

He  walked  through  the  valley,  walked  through  the  street, 
And  he  left  the  print  of  his  fiery  feet 

In  the  dead,  dead,  dead,  that  were  everywherej 
And  buried  away  with  never  a  prayer. 


WAR  AND  PEACE.  417 

From  the  desolate  land,  from  its  very  heart, 
There  went  forth  a  cry  to  the  uttermost  part ; — 

You  heard  it,  O  brothers !  —  With  never  a  measure 
You  opened  your  hearts,  and  poured  out  your  treasure. 

O  Sisters  of  Mercy,  you  gave  above  these  ! 

For  you  helped,  we  know,  on  your  bended  knees. 

Your  pity  was  human,  but  oh  1  it  was  more, 
When  you  shared  our  cross  and  our  burden  bore. 

Your  lives  in  your  hands  you  stood  by  our  side ; 
Your  lives  for  our  lives  —  you  lay  down  and  died. 

And  no  greater  love  hath  a  man  to  give, 

Than  to  lay  down  his  life  that  his  friends  may  live. 

You  poured  in  our  wounds  the  oil  and  the  wine 
That  you  brought  to  us  from  a  Hand  Divine. 

You  conquered  us  once,  and  our  swords  we  gave ; 
We  yield  now  our  hearts  —  they  are  all  we  have. 

Our  last  trench  was  there,  and  it  held  out  long ; 
It  is  yours,  O  friends  !  and  you  '11  find  it  strong. 

Your  love  had  a  magic  diviner  than  art, 
And  "  Conquered  by  Kindness  "  we  '11  write  on  our  heart. 

MARIA  L.  EVE. 


PART   XVI. 
Comefcp,  25urie£que,  ^arotip,  anfc 


Jog  on,  jog  on,  the  foot-path  way, 

And  merrily  hent  the  stile-a : 
A  merry  heart  goes  all  the  day, 

Your  sad  tires  in  a  mile-a. 

SHAKSFEARE. 


PART    XVI. 

Comity),  Burlesque,  $>arobp,  anti 


IN  the  smoke  of  my  dear  cigarito 

Cloud  castles  rise  gorgeous  and  tall, 
And  Eros,  divine  muchachito, 

With  smiles  hovers  over  it  all. 

But  dreaming,  forgetting  to  cherish 

The  fire  at  my  lips,  as  it  dies, 
The  dream  and  the  rapture  must  perish, 

And  Eros  descend  from  the  skies. 

O  wicked  and  false  muchachito, 

Your  rapture  I  yet  may  recall ; 
But  like  my  re-lit  cigarito, 

A  bitterness  tinges  it  all. 

CAMILLA  K.  VON  K. 


IN  PRAISE  OF  WINE. 

DIOGENES,  surly  and  proud, 

Who  snarled  at  the  Macedon  youth, 
Delighted  in  wine  that  was  good, 

Because  in  good  wine  there  was  truth ; 
But,  growing  as  poor  as  Job, 

Unable  to  purchase  a  flask, 
He  chose  for  his  mansion  a  tub, 

And  lived  by  the  scent  of  the  cask. 

Heraclitus  ne'er  would  deny 
To  tipple  and  cherish  his  heart, 

And  when  he  was  maudlin  he  'd  cry 
Because  he  had  emptied  his  quart ; 


422  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Though  some  are  so  foolish  to  think 
He  wept  at  men's  folly  and  vice, 

'T  was  only  his  fashion  to  drink 
Till  the  liquor  flowed  out  of  his  eyes. 

Democritus  always  was  glad 

Of  a  bumper  to  cheer  up  his  soul, 
And  would  laugh  like  a  man  that  was  mad, 

When  over  a  good  flowing  bowl. 
As  long  as  his  cellar  was  stored, 

The  liquor  he  'd  merrily  quaff ; 
And  when  he  was  drunk  as  a  lord, 

At  those  who  were  sober  he  'd  laugh. 

Copernicus,  too,  like  the  rest, 

Believed  there  was  wisdom  in  wine, 
And  thought  that  a  cup  of  the  best 

Made  reason  the  better  to  shine. 
With  wine  he  'd  replenish  his  veins 

And  make  his  philosophy  reel ; 
Then  fancied  the  world,  like  his  brain, 

Turned  round  like  a  chariot  wheel. 


Aristotle,  that  master  of  arts, 

Had  been  but  a  dunce  without  wine  ; 
And  what  we  ascribe  to  his  parts, 

Is  due  to  the  juice  of  the  vine  ;    • 
His  belly,  most  writers  agree, 

Was  as  big  as  a  watering-trough  ; 
He  therefore  leaped  into  the  sea, 

Because  he  M  have  liquor  enough. 

Old  Plato,  the  learned  divine, 

He  fondly  to  wisdom  was  prone  ; 
But  had  it  not  been  for  good  wine, 

His  merits  had  never  been  known. 
By  wine  we  are  generous  made, 

It  furnishes  fancy  with  wings ; 
Without  it,  we  ne'er  should  have  had 

Philosophers,  poets,  or  kings. 


WHY  TRUTH  GOES  NAKED. 

LIST  to  a  tale  well  worth  the  ear 
Of  all  who  wit  and  sense  admire ; 

Invented,  it  is  very  clear, 

Some  ages  prior  to  Matthew  Prior. 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.    423 

Falsehood  and  Truth  "  upon  a  time," 

One  day  in  June's  delicious  weather 
(Twas  in  a  distant  age  and  clime), 

Like  sisters,  took  a  walk  together. 
On,  on  their  pretty  way  they  took 

Through  fragrant  wood  and  verdant  meadow, 
To  where  a  beech  beside  a  brook 

Invited  rest  beneath  its  shadow. 
There,  sitting  in  the  pleasant  shade 

Upon  the  margin's  grassy  matting 
(A  velvet  cushion  ready  made), 

The  young  companions  fell  to  chatting. 
Now,  while  in  voluble  discourse 

On  this  and  that  their  tongues  were  running, 
As  habit  bids  each  speak  —  perforce, 

The  one  is  frank,  the  other  cunning ; 
Falsehood,  at  length,  impatient  grown 

With  scandals  of  her  own  creation, 
Said,  "  Since  we  two  are  quite  alone, 

And  nicely  screened  from  observation, 
Suppose  in  this  delightful  rill, 

While  all  around  is  so  propitious, 
We  take  a  bath  ? "    Said  Truth,  «  I  will  — 

A  bath,  I  'm  sure,  will  be  delicious !  " 
At  this  her  robe  she  cast  aside, 

And  in  the  stream  that  ran  before  her 
She  plunged  —  like  Ocean's  happy  bride  — 

As  naked  as  her  mother  bore  her  ! 
Falsehood  at  leisure  now  undressed, 

Put  off  the  robes  her  limbs  that  hamper, 
And  having  donned  Truth's  snow-white  vest, 

Ran  off  as  fast  as  she  could  scamper. 
Since  then  the  subtle  maid,  in  sooth, 

Expert  in  lies  and  shrewd  evasions, 
Has  borne  the  honest  name  of  Truth, 

And  wears  her  clothes  on  all  occasions. 
While  Truth,  disdaining  to  appear 

In  Falsehood's  petticoat  and  bodice, 
Still  braves  all  eyes  from  year  to  year 

As  naked  as  a  marble  goddess. 


IF  YOU  WANT  A  KISS,  WHY,  TAKE  IT. 

THERE  's  a  jolly  Saxon  proverb 

That  is  pretty  much  like  this,  — 
That  a  man  is  half  in  heaven 

If  he  has  a  woman's  kiss. 
There  is  danger  in  delaying, 

For  the  sweetness  may  forsake  it  5 
So  I  tell  you,  bashful  lover, 

If  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 


424  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Never  let  another  fellow 

Steal  a  march  on  you  in  this ; 
Never  let  a  laughing  maiden 

See  you  spoiling  for  a  kiss. 
There  s  a  royal  way  to  kissing, 

And  the  jolly  ones  who  make  it 
Have  a  motto  that  is  winning,  — 

If  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 

Any  fool  may  face  a  cannon, 

Anybody  wear  a  crown, 
But  a  man  must  win  a  woman 

If  he  'd  have  her  for  his  own. 
Would  you  have  the  golden  apple, 

You  must  find  the  tree  and  shake  it ; 
If  the  thing  is  worth  the  having, 

And  you  want  a  kiss,  why,  take  it. 

Who  would  burn  upon  a  desert 

With  a  forest  smiling  by  ? 
Who  would  change  his  sunny  summer 

For  a  bleak  and  wintry  sky  ? 
Oh,  I  tell  you  there  is  magic, 

And  you  cannot,  cannot  break  it ; 
For  the  sweetest  part  of  loving 

Is  to  want  a  kiss,  and  take  it. 


TWO  MEN  I   KNOW. 

I  KNOW  a  duke ;  well,  let  him  pass  — 
I  may  not  call  his  grace  an  ass ; 
Though  if  I  did  I  'd  do  no  wrong, 
Save  to  the  asses  and  my  song. 

The  duke  is  neither  wise  nor  good ; 
He  gambles,  drinks,  scorns  womanhood, 
And  at  the  age  of  twenty-four 
Was  worn  and  battered  as  threescore. 

I  know  a  waiter  in  Pall  Mall 

Who  works,  and  waits,  and  reasons  well ; 

Is  gentle,  courteous,  and  refined, 

And  has  a  magnet  in  his  mind. 

What  is  it  makes  his  graceless  grace 
So  like  a  jockey  out  of  place  ? 
What  makes  the  waiter  —  tell  who  can  — 
So  very  like  a  gentleman  ? 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.    425 

Perhaps  their  mothers  —  God  is  great  1  — 
Perhaps  't  is  accident,  or  fate  ! 
Perhaps  because  —  hold  not  my  pen  — 
We  can  breed  horses  but  not  men. 
English  Newspaper. 


DARWINISM  IN  THE  KITCHEN. 

I  WAS  takin'  off  my  bonnet 

One  arternoon  at  three 
When  a  hinseck  jumped  upon  it 

As  proved  to  be  a  flea. 

Then  I  takes  it  to  the  grate, 

Between  the  bars  to  stick  it, 
But  I  had  n't  long  to  wait 

Ere  it  changed  into  a  cricket. 

Says  I,  "  Surelie  my  senses 

Is  a-gettin'  in  a  fog !  " 
So  to  drown  it  I  commences, 

When  it  halters  to  a  frog. 

Here  my  heart  began  to  thump, 

And  no  wonder  I  felt  funky ; 
For  the  frog,  with  one  big  jump, 

Leaped  hisself  into  a  monkey. 

Then  I  opened  wide  my  eyes, 

His  features  for  to  scan, 
And  observed,  with  great  surprise, 

That  that  monkey  was  a  man. 

But  he  vanished  from  my  sight, 

And  I  sunk  upon  the  floor, 
Just  as  missus  with  a  light 

Come  inside  the  kitching  door. 

Then,  beginnin'  to  abuse  me, 

She  says,  "  Sarah,  you  Ve  been  drinkin'  1  * 
I  says,  "  No,  mum,  you  '11  excuse  me, 

But  I  Ve  merely  been  a-thinkin'. 

"  But  as  sure  as  I  'm  a  cinder, 

That  party  what  you  see 
A-gettin'  out  the  winder 

Have  developed  from  a  flea ! " 


426  THE   HUMBLER   POETS. 


NINETY-NINE   IN  THE   SHADE. 

OH  for  a  lodge  in  a  garden  of  cucumbers ! 

Oh  for  an  iceberg  or  two  at  control ! 
Oh  for  a  vale  that  at  mid-day  the  dew  cumbers ! 

Oh  for  a  pleasure-trip  up  to  the  pole  ! 

Oh  for  a  little  one-story  thermometer 

With  nothing  but  zeroes  all  ranged  in  a  row  ! 

Oh  for  a  big  double-barrelled  hygrometer, 
To  measure  the  moisture  that  rolls  from  my  brow ! 

Oh  that  this  cold  world  were  twenty  times  colder  1 
(That  *s  irony  red  hot,  it  seemeth  to  me.) 

Oh  for  a  turn  of  its  dreaded  cold  shoulder ! 
Oh  what  a  comfort  an  ague  would  be  1 

Oh  for  a  grotto  frost-lined  and  rill-riven, 
Scooped  in  the  rock  under  cataract  vast  I 

Oh  for  a  winter  of  discontent  even  ! 
Oh  for  wet  blankets  judiciously  cast  1 

Oh  for  a  soda-fount  spouting  up  boldly 

From  every  hot  lamp-post  against  tne  hot  sky ! 

Oh  for  a  maiden  to  look  on  me  coldly, 

Freezing  my  soul  with  a  glance  from  her  eyel 

Then  oh  for  a  draught  from  the  cup  of  cold  pizen, 
And  oh,  for  a  through  ticket  via  Coldgrave 

To  the  baths  of  the  Styx  where  a  thick  shadow  lies  on, 
And  deepens  the  chill  of  its  dark  running  wave  J 

ROSSITER  JOHNSON. 


A  COCKNEY  WAIL. 

THE  great  Pacific  journey  I  have  done, 

In  many  a  town  and  tent  I  've  found  a  lodgment, 
I  think  I  Ve  travelled  to  the  setting  sun, 

And  very  nearly  reached  the  day  of  judgment. 
Like  Launcelot  in  quest  of  Holy  Grail, 

From  western  Beersheba  to  Yankee  Dan 
I  Ve  been  a  seeker,  yet  I  sadly  fail 

To  find  the  genuine  type  American. 

Where  is  this  object  of  my  youthful  wonder, 
Who  met  me  in  the  pages  of  Sam  Slick,  — 

Who  opened  every  sentence  with  "  By  thunder  I  " 
And  whittled  always  on  a  bit  of  stick  ? 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     427 

The  more  the  crowd  of  friends  around  me  thickens, 
The  less  my  chance  to  meet  him  seems  to  be ; 

Why  did  he  freely  show  himself  to  Dickens, 
To  Dixon,  Sala,  Trollope,  not  to  me  ? 

No  one  accosts  me  with  the  words,  "  Wa'al,  stranger  !  " 

Greets  me  as  "  Festive  cuss,"  or  shouts  "  Old  hoss  I  " 
No  grim  six-shooter  threatens  me  with  danger, 

If  I  don't  "  quickly  pass  the  butter,  boss." 
Round  friendly  boards  no  "  cocktail  "  ever  passes, 

No  "  brandy  smash  "  my  morning  hour  besets ; 
And  petticoats  are  worn  by  all  the  lasses, 

And  the  pianos  don't  wear  pantalettes. 

The  ladies,  when  you  offer  chicken  salad, 

Don't  say,  "  I  'm  pretty  crowded  now,  I  guess  ; M 
They  don't  sing  Mrs.  Barney  Williams'  ballad 

Of  "  Bobbing  Round,"  nor  add  "sir-ee  "  to  yes. 
I,  too,  have  sat,  like  every  other  fellow, 

In  many  a  railway,  omnibus,  street  car ; 
No  girl  has  spiked  ME  with  a  fierce  umbrella, 

And  said,  "  You  git,  I  mean  to  sit  right  thar." 

Gone  are  the  Yankees  of  my  early  reading ! 

Faded  the  Yankee  land  of  eager  quest ! 
I  meet  with  culture,  courtesy,  good-breeding, 

Art,  letters,  men  and  women  of  the  best. 
Oh,  fellow  Britons,  all  my  hopes  are  undone  ! 

Take  counsel  of  a  disappointed  man  : 
Don't  come  out  here,  but  stay  at  home  in  London, 

And  seek  in  books  the  true  American. 


I  WUD  KNOT  DYE  IN  WINTUR. 

I  WUD  knot  dye  in  wintur, 

When  whiski  punchez  flo ; 
When  pooty  galls  air  skatin' 

O'er  fealds  ov  ice  an*  sno; 
When  sassidge-meet  is  phrying, 

And  hickrie  knuts  is  thick ; 
Owe  !  who  kud  think  of  dighing, 

Or  even  gettin'  sick  ? 

I  wud  knot  dye  in  springtime, 

And  miss  the  turnup  greens, 
And  the  pooty  song  ov  the  leetle  fraugs, 

And  the  ski-lark's  airly  screams. 
When  burds  begin  thare  wobbling, 

And  taters  'gin  to  sprout, 
When  turkies  go  a-gobblering, 

I  wud  knot  then  peg.  out. 


428  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

I  wud  knot  dye  in  summer, 

And  leave  the  gard'n  sass, 
The  roasted  lam,  and  buttermilk, 

The  kool  plase  in  the  grass ; 
I  wud  knot  dye  in  summer, 

When  everything 's  so  hot, 
And  leave  the  whiski  jew-lips  — 

Owe  know  !  Ide  ruther  knott. 

I  wud  knot  dye  in  ortum, 

With  peeches  fitt  fur  eating, 
When  the  wavy  corn  is  gettin'  wripe, 

An'  Kandidates  is  treating ; 
Phor  these  and  other  wreasons 

Ide  knot  dye  in  the  fall, 
And  —  sinse  I  Ve  thort  it  over  — 

I  wud  knot  dye  at  all. 


THE   LITTLE   PEACH. 

A  LITTLE  peach  in  the  orchard  grew  — 
A  little  peach  of  emerald  hue  ; 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew, 
It  grew. 

One  day,  passing  the  orchard  through, 
That  little  peach  dawned  on  the  view 
Of  Johnnie  Jones  and  his  sister  Sue  — 
Those  two. 

Up  at  the  peach  a  club  he  threw  — 
Down  from  the  tree  on  which  it  grew 
Fell  the  little  peach  of  emerald  hue  — 
Mon  dieu ! 

She  took  a  bite  and  he  a  chew, 
And  then  the  trouble  began  to  brew  — 
Trouble  the  doctor  could  n't  subdue  — 
Too  true ! 

Under  the  turf  where  the  daisies  grew 
They  planted  John  and  his  sister  Sue, 
And  their  little  souls  to  the  angels  flew  — 
Boo-hoo ! 

But  what  of  the  peach  of  emerald  hue, 
Warmed  by  the  sun  and  wet  by  the  dew  ? 
Ah,  well,  its  mission  on  earth  was  through  — 
Adieu ! 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH,    429 


PATS   LETTER. 


WELL,  Mary,  me  darlint,  I  'm  landed  at  last, 

And  troth,  though  they  tell  me  the  staimer  was  fast, 

It  seems  as  if  years  upon  years  had  gone  by 

Since  Paddy  looked  intil  your  beautiful  eye. 

For  Amerikay,  darlint,  —  ye  '11  think  it  is  quare,  — 

Is  twenty  times  furder  than  Cork  from  Kildare ; 

And  the  say  is  that  broad,  and  the  waves  are  that  high, 

Ye  're  tossed  like  a  futball  'twixt  wather  and  shky ; 

And  ye  fale  like  a  pratie  burstin'  the  shkin, 

And  all  ye  can  do  is  to  howld  yersilf  in. 

Ochone !  but  me  jewel,  the  say  may  be  grand, 

But  when  you  come  over,  dear,  thravel  by  land ! 

It 's  a  wonderful  country,  this  —  so  I  am  towld  — 

They  '11  not  look  at  guineas  so  chape  is  the  gowld ; 

And  the  three  that  poor  mother  sewed  into  me  coat 

I  sowld  for  a  thrifle  on  lavin'  the  boat. 

And  the  quarest  of  fashions  ye  iver  have  seen  ! 

They  pay  ye  wid  picters  all  painted  in  green. 

And  the  crowds  that  are  rushing  here  morning  and  night 

Would  make  the  Lord  Lieutenant  shake  with  the  fright. 

The  strates  are  that  full  that  no  one  can  pass, 

And  the  only  law  is,  "  Do  not  thread  on  the  grass." 

Their  grass  is  the  quarest  of  shows,  by  me  vow, 

For  it  would  n't  be  munched  by  a  Candlemas  cow. 

Tell  father  I  wint,  as  he  bid  me,  to  see 

His  friend  Tim  O'Shannon,  from  Killycaughee. 

It 's  rowlin*  in  riches  O'Shannon  is  now, 

With  a  wife  and  tin  babies,  six  pigs  and  a  cow, 

In  a  nate  little  house  standing  down  from  the  strate, 

With  two  beautiful  rooms  and  a  pigsty  complate. 

I  thought  of  ye,  darlint,  and  drained  such  a  drame  1 

That  mebbe  some  day  we  'd  be  the  same ; 

Though  troth,  Tim  O'Shannon's  wife  never  could  dare 

(Poor  yaller-skinned  crayther !)  with  you  to  compare. 

And  as  for  the  pigs,  sure,  't  is  aisy  to  see 

The  bastes  were  not  meant  for  this  land  of  the  free. 

I  think  of  ye,  darlint,  from  morning  till  night, 
And  when  I  'm  not  thinkin'  ye  're  still  in  my  sight ! 
I  see  your  blue  eyes  with  the  sun  in  their  glance  — 
Your  smile  in  the  meadow,  your  feet  in  the  dance. 
I  '11  love  ye  and  trust  ye,  both  livin'  and  dead ! 
I  'm  workin',  acushla,  for  you  —  only  you, 
And  I  '11  make  you  a  lady  yit,  if  ye  '11  be  true ; 


430  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Though  troth,  ye  can't  climb  Fortune's  laddher  so  quick 
Whin  both  of  your  shoulders  are  loaded  with  brick; 
But  1  '11  do  it  —  I  swear  it  —  by  this  and  by  that ; 
Which  manes  what  I  dare  n't  say  —  from  your  own  Pat. 

QUEERQUILL. 
NOTE.  —  Fifth  line  of  fourth  stanza  evidently  lost. 


TOO  GREAT  A   SACRIFICE. 

THE  maid,  as  by  the  papers  doth  appear, 

Whom  fifty  thousand  dollars  made  so  dear, 

To  test  Lothario's  passion,  simply  said : 

"  Forego  the  weed  before  we  go  to  wed. 

For  smoke  take  flame ;  I  '11  be  that  flame's  bright  fanner  i 

To  have  your  Anna,  give  up  your  Havana." 

But  he,  when  thus  she  brought  him  to  the  scratch, 

Lit  his  cigar  and  threw  away  his  match. 


•OWED"  TO   MY   POCKET-BOOK. 

How  fair  thou  art,  O  little  book 

Of  scented  Russia  leather  1 
With  stitches  fanciful  and  fine 

To  hold  you  well  together ; 
But  stitches  strong  are  useless  all, 

There  is  no  strain  upon  thee ; 
The  great  brogan  of  poverty 

Is  very  heavy  on  thee. 

What  endless  room  is  here  for  bills 

Of  large  denominations, 
With  checks  and  bonds  a  goodly  store  — 

Ah,  vain  imaginations ! 
The  hungriest  pocket-book  thou  art 

That  ever  in  a  highway 
Was  picked  up  by  a  well-fooled  man 

And  cast  into  a  by-way. 

Consumption  settled  on  thy  form 

Till  you  cannot  grow  thinner ; 
In  vain  you  plead  with  open  mouth 

Of  me  a  greenback  dinner. 
T  is  very  sad  thou  couldst  not  stand 

The  drain  upon  thy  system ; 
I  never  knew  what  dollars  were 

Until  I  wholly  missed  them. 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     431 

I  'm  safe  to  say  that  there 's  more  cash 

Outside  of  thee  than  in  thee ; 
I  'd  stake  thee  on  some  risky  bet, 

Nor  care  much  who  would  win  thee. 
I  look  at  thee  and  nothing  see,  — 

They  say  you  can't  see  nothing  ; 
Yet  here  it 's  very  palpable  — 

In  sooth,  not  very  soothing. 

Should  some  highwayman  thee  demand, 

I  'd  gladly  give  thee  to  him  ; 
*T  would  lead  him  into  suicide, 

Or  monstrously  undo  him. 
Sad  pocket-book  !  I  feel  for  thee, 

But  not  as  in  days  sunny ; 
Henceforth  the  pocket  of  my  vest 

Will  carry  all  my  money. 


SUCH   A   DUCK. 

ONCE  Venus,  deeming  Love  too  fat, 

Stopped  all  his  rich,  ambrosial  dishes, 
Dooming  the  boy  to  live  on  chat,  — 

To  sup  on  songs  and  dine  on  wishes. 
Love,  lean  and  lank,  flew  off  to  prowl,  — 

The  starveling  now  no  beauty  boasted,  — 
He  could  have  munched  Minerva's  owl, 

Or  Juno's  peacock,  boiled  or  roasted. 

At  last,  half  famished,  almost  dead, 

He  shot  his  mother's  doves  for  dinner ; 
Young  Lilla,  passing,  shook  her  head,  — 

Cried  Love,  "  A  shot  at  you,  young  sinner  !  " 
*  Oh,  not  at  me  !  "  she  urged  her  flight  — 

"  I  'm  neither  dove,  nor  lark,  nor  starling !  " 
"  No,"  fainting  Cupid  cried,  "  not  quite  ; 

But  then  —  you  're  such  a  duck,  my  darling  I " 


ANY    ONE   WILL   DO. 

A  MAIDEN  once,  of  certain  age, 
To  catch  a  husband  did  engage  ; 
But,  having  passed  the  prime  of  life 
In  striving  to  become  a  wife 
Without  success,  she  thought  it  time 
To  mend  the  follies  of  her  prime. 


432  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Departing  from  the  usual  course 
Of  paint  and  such  like  for  resource, 
With  all  her  might,  this  ancient  maid 
Beneath  an  oak-tree  knelt,  and  prayed ; 
Unconscious  that  a  grave  old  owl 
Was  perched  above  —  the  mousing  fowl ! 

"  Oh,  give  !  a  husband  give  !  "  she  cried, 
"  While  yet  I  may  become  a  bride  ; 
Soon  will  my  day  of  grace  be  o'er, 
And  then,  like  many  maids  before, 
I  '11  die  without  an  early  love, 
And  none  to  meet  me  there  above  ! 

"  Oh,  't  is  a  fate  too  hard  to  bear ! 

Then  answer  this  my  humble  prayer, 

And  oh,  a  husband  give  to  me  !  " 

Just  then  the  owl  from  out  the  tree, 

In  deep  base  tones  cried,  "  Who-who-who  !  * 

"  Who,  Lord  ?    And  dost  thou  ask  me  who  ? 

Why,  any  one,  good  Lord,  will  do." 


THE  RABBI'S  PRESENT. 

A  RABBI  once,  by  all  admired, 

Received,  of  high  esteem  the  sign 
From  those  his  goodness  thus  inspired, 

A  present  of  a  cask  of  wine. 
But  lo  !  when  soon  he  came  to  draw, 

A  miracle  in  mode  as  rapid 
But  quite  unlike  what  Cana  saw, 

Had  turned  his  wine  to  water  vapid. 
The  Rabbi  never  knew  the  cause, 

For  miracles  are  things  of  mystery ; 
Though  some  like  this  have  had  their  laws 

Explained  from  facts  of  private  history. 
His  friends,  whom  love  did  aptly  teach, 

Wished  all  to  share  the  gracious  task, 
So  planned  to  bring  a  bottle  each, 

And  pour  their  wine  in  one  great  cask. 
Now  one  by  chance  thought,  "  None  will  know, 

And  with  the  wine  of  all  my  brothers 
One  pint  of  water  well  may  go  ;  " 

And  so  by  chance  thought  all  the  others. 
Cornhill  Magazine. 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     433 


'SPACIALLY  JIM. 

I  wus  mighty  good-lookin'  when  I  wus  young, 

Peert  an'  black-eyed  an*  slim, 
With  fellers  a-courtin'  me  Sunday  nights, 

'Specially  Jim. 

The  likeliest  one  of  'em  all  wus  he, 

Chipper  an'  han'som'  an'  trim  ; 
But  I  tossed  up  my  head  an*  made  fun  o*  the  crowd, 

'Specially  Jim. 

I  said  I  had  n't  no  'pinion  o'  men, 

An'  I  would  n't  take  stock  in  him  ! 
But  they  kep'  on  a-comin'  in  spite  o'  my  talk, 

'Specially  Jim. 

I  got  so  tired  o'  havin'  'em  roun' 

('Spatially  Jim  ! ) 
I  made  up  my  mind  I  'd  settle  down 

An'  take  up  with  him. 

So  we  wus  married  one  Sunday  in  church, 

'T  was  crowded  full  to  the  brim  ; 
'T  was  the  only  way  to  git  rid  of  'em  all, 

'Spacially  Jim. 
Century.  B.  M. 


A   PULL-BACK. 

A  LITTLE  Pull-Back  sought  one  day 

The  gates  of  Paradise ; 
Saint  Peter  wiped  his  spectacles 

And  rubbed  his  ancient  eyes. 

And  throngs  of  female  angels  came 

With  curious  gaze  the  while, 
Intent,  as  ladies  always  are, 

To  see  the  latest  style. 

The  saint  put  on  his  glasses  then  — 

An  observation  took ; 
"What !  what ! "  he  said,  "  this  traverses 

The  laws  of  *  must  n't  look.' 

"Tied  up  in  front !     Piled  up  behind  ! 

'T  will  never  do,  I  fear ! 
The  thing  is  too  ridiculous  — 

You  cannot  enter  here." 
28 


434  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

What  did  she  do  ?    My  curious  friend, 

She  got  behind  a  tree ; 
And  in  a  jiffy  she  was  dressed 

As  angels  ought  to  be.     . 

Saint  Peter  kissed  her  then,  and  said: 
"  Pass  in,  my  little  dear  ; 

But  mind,  you  must  n't  introduce 
Such  naughty  fashions  here." 


A  LESSON  IN  MYTHOLOGY. 


I  READ  to  her,  one  summer  day, 

A  little  mythologic  story 
About  the  maid  who  laughed  at  love, 

And  ran  a  race  for  love  and  glory. 

I  closed  the  book.    She  raised  her  eyes 

And  hushed  the  song  she  had  been  humming ; 

Glancing  across  the  shady  lawn, 
I  saw  my  wealthy  rival  coming. 

"  These  ancient  tales,"  I  gravely  said, 

"  With  meaning  wise  are  often  laden ; 
And  Atalanta  well  may  stand 

As  type  of  many  a  modern  maiden. 

M  Minus,  of  course,  the  classic  scandal, 

But  with  no  less  of  nimble  grace, 
How  many  dainty  slippered  feet 

Are  running  now  that  self-same  race  I 

"  And  when  Hippomenes  casts  down 

His  golden  apples,  is  there  ever 
A  chance  for  Love  to  reach  the  goal  ?  " 

With  saucy  smile,  she  answered,  "  Never  1 " 

I  rose  to  go  —  she  took  my  hand 

(O  Fate,  you  ne'er  that  clasp  can  sever  I ). 

And,  "  Stay,"  she  said,  with  sudden  blush,  — 
"  You  know  that  I  meant  — '  hardly  ever.' " 

ELIZA  C.  HALL 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH     435 


ZOOLOGY. 

OH  !  merry  is  the  Madrepore  that  sits  beside  the  sea ; 
The  cheery  little  Coralline  hath  many  charms  for  me ; 
I  love  the  fine  Echinoderms,  of  azure,  green,  and  gray, 
That  handled  roughly  fling  their  arms  impulsively  away; 
Then  bring  me  here  the  microscope  and  let  me  see  the  cells 
Wherein  the  little  Zoophite  like  garden  floweret  dwells. 

We  '11  take  the  fair  Anemone  from  off  its  rocky  seat, 
Since  Rondeletius  has  said  when  fried  7t  is  good  to  eat. 
Dyspeptics  from  Sea-Cucumbers  a  lesson  well  may  win, 
They  blithely  take  their  organs  out  and  then  put  fresh  ones  in. 
The  Rotifer  in  whirling  round  may  surely  bear  the  bell, 
With  Oceanic  Hydrozoids  that  Huxley  knows  so  well. 

You  've  heard  of  the  Octopus,  'tis  a  pleasant  thing  to  know 
He  has  a  ganglion  makes  him  blush,  not  red,  but  white  as  snow; 
And  why  the  strange  Cercaria,  to  go  a  long  way  back, 
Wears  ever,  as  some  ladies  do,  a  fashionable  "  sac ; " 
And  how  the  Pawn  has  parasites  that  on  his  head  make  holes ; 
Ask  Dr.  Cobbold,  and  he  '11  say  they  're  just  like  tiny  soles. 

Then  study  well  zoology,  and  add  unto  your  store 
The  tales  of  Biogenesis  and  Protoplasmic  lore ; 
As  Paley  neatly  has  observed,  when  into  life  they  burst, 
The  frog  and  the  philosopher  are  just  the  same  at  first; 
But  what 's  the  origin  of  life  remains  a  puzzle  still, 
Let  Tyndall,  Haeckel,  Bastion,  go  wrangle  as  they  will. 
Punch. 


OLD  FIDDLING  JOSEY. 

GIT  yo'  pardners,  fust  kwattilion  I 

Stomp  yo'  feet  an'  raise  'em  high ; 
Tune  is,  "  Oh,  dat  watermillion  1 

Gwine  to  git  home  bime-bye." 
S'lute  yo'  pardners  !  scrape  perlitely  - 

Don't  be  bumpin'  'gin  de  res'  — 
Balance  all  I  now  step  out  rightly  ; 

Alluz  dance  yo'  lebbel  bes'. 
Fo'wa'd  foah  !  —  whoop  up,  niggers  I 

Back  ag'in  !  don't  be  so  slow  — 
Swing  cornah's  1  min'  de  figgers, 

When  I  hollers  den  yo'  go. 
Top  ladies  cross  ober, 

Hold  on  till  I  takes  a  dram  — 
Gemmen  solo  !  yes,  I 's  sober  — » 

Kaint  say  how  de  fiddle  am. 


436  THE  HUMBLER    POETS. 

Hands  around  I  hoi*  up  yo'  faces ; 

Don't  be  lookin'  at  yo'  feet ! 
Swing  yo'  pardners  !  to  yo'  places ! 

Dat  s  de  way  —  dat  's  hard  to  beat. 
Sides  f o'w'd  —  when  yo  's  ready  — 

Make  a  bow  as  low  Js  you  kin. 
Swing  acrost  wid  opp'site  lady, 

Now  we  '11  let  you  swop  ag  in  ; 
Ladies  change  —  shut  up  dat  talkin* ; 

Do  yo'  talkin'  arter  while  — 
Right  an'  lef  I  don't  want  no  walkin' ; 

Make  yo'  steps  an'  show  yo'  style. 

IRWIN  RUSSELL. 


A  SEASIDE  INCIDENT. 

"  WHY,  Bob,  you  dear  old  fellow, 

Where  have  you  been  these  years  ? 
In  Egypt,  India,  Khiva, 

With  the  Khan's  own  volunteers  ? 
Have  you  scaled  the  Alps  or  Andes, 

Sailed  to  Isles  of  Amazons  ? 
What  climate,  Bob,  has  wrought  the  change 

Your  face  from  brown  to  bronze  ?  " 

She  placed  a  dimpled  hand  in  mine, 

In  the  same  frank,  friendly  way ; 
We  stood  once  more  on  the  dear  old  beach, 

And  it  seemed  but  yesterday 
Since,  standing  on  this  same  white  shore, 

She  said,  with  eyelids  wet, 
"  Good-by.    You  may  remember,  Bob, 

But  I  shall  not  forget." 

I  held  her  hand  and  whispered  low, 

"  Madge,  darling,  what  of  the  years  — 
The  ten  long  years  that  have  intervened 

Since,  through  the  mist  of  tears, 
We  looked  good-by  on  this  same  white  beach 

Here  by  the  murmuring  sea  ? 
You,  Madge,  were  then  just  twenty, 

And  I  was  twenty-three." 

A  crimson  blush  came  to  her  cheek, 

"  Hush,  Bob,"  she  quickly  said ; 
"  Let 's  look  at  the  bathers  in  the  surf — 

There 's  Nellie  and  Cousin  Ned." 
"  And  who  's  that  portly  gentleman 

On  the  shady  side  of  life  ? " 
w  Oh,  he  belongs  to  our  party,  too  — 

In  fact,  Bob,  I  'm  his  wife  I 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     437 

"  And  I  tell  you,  Bob,  it  fs  an  awful  thing, 

The  way  he  does  behave  ; 
Flirts  with  that  girl  in  steel-gray  silk  — 

Bob,  why  do  you  look  so  grave  ?  " 
"  The  fact  is,  Madge  —  I  —  well,  ahem ! 

Oh,  nothing  at  all,  my  dear — 
Except  that  she  of  the  steel-gray  silk 

Is  the  one  I  married  last  year." 
New  York  Clipper.  MARC  COOK. 

(  Vandyke  Brown.) 


LINES  BY   AN  OLD  FOGY. 

I  'M  thankful  that  the  sun  and  moon 

Are  both  hung  up  so  high, 
That  no  presumptuous  hand  can  stretch 

And  pull  them  from  the  sky. 
If  they  were  not,  I  have  no  doubt 

But  some  reforming  ass 
Would  recommend  to  take  them  down 

And  light  the  world  with  gas. 


ASTRONOMICAL. 

a  COUSIN  Edward,  what  d&  these  scientists  mean, 
With  all  their  big  words  and  new  fangles  ? 

This  morning  at  breakfast  they  talked  a  whole  hour 
Of  parallactical  angles." 

"  Well,  Lu,  we  will  demonstrate  here  on  the  beach, 

In  a  manner  strikingly  practical ; 
You  're  the  moon,  I  the  earth,  and  Simpkins  a  star; 

The  angle  is  styled  parallactical. 

"  The  farther  we  get  from  our  star,  you  perceive, 

The  shorter  this  line,  which  the  base  is, 
Till  he  melts  in  the  infinite  azure,  and  then, 

There 's  no  space  at  all  between  faces." 

"  Oh,  Edward,  how  could  you !  and  Simpkins  right  therei 

With  his  handkerchief  over  his  lips  ; 
What  will  the  man  think  ?  "    "  Oh,  never  mind,  Lu, 

He  '11  think  it  a  lunar  eclipse." 
Daily  Graphic. 


438  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

LINES   ON  A  GRASSHOPPER. 
(By  A  GRANGER  NATURALIST.) 

I  'VE  got  him,  at  last,  in  the  focus 

Of  a  powerful  telescope  glass, 
But  he,  magnified,  looks  like  a  slow  cuss, 

And  his  ears  much  like  those  of  an  ass. 

His  eyes  are  like  two  peeled  potatoes ; 

His  wings  like  the  sails  of  a  ship  ; 
And  his  beard,  which  unshaven  that  way  grows, 

Seems  to  cover  an  acre  of  lip. 

His  stomach  is  large  and  capacious, 

It  always  is  hungry,  no  doubt ; 
And,  much  like  a  hog,  his  rapacious 

Desires  may  be  gauged  by  his  snout. 

His  legs  are  not  merely  for  creeping, 
They  are  muscular,  angular,  high  ; 

Just  fitted  for  gallantly  leaping, 
When  he  chooses,  plumb  into  the  sky ! 

From  his  brawny  bull  neck,  saffron-tinted, 

Suspended  by  weather-stained  rope, 
Hangs  a  medal  with  Sanscrit  imprinted  : 
"  With  this  monster  no  mortal  can  cope  ! 

"  He 's  descended  through  long  generations, 
With  a  pedigree  perfect  and  straight, 

From  the  locust  that  scooped  ancient  nations 
Whenever  he  lit  at  their  gate." 


CONVERSATIONAL. 

"How's  your  father  ?  "  came  the  whisper, 
Bashful  Ned  the  silence  breaking ; 

"  Oh,  he 's  nicely,"  Annie  murmured, 
Smilingly  the  question  taking. 

Conversation  flagged  a  moment, 
Hopeless,  Ned  essayed  another  : 

"  Annie,  I  —  I,"  then  a  coughing, 
And  the  question,  "  How  's  your  mother  ? 

"  Mother  ?    Oh,  she  's  doing  finely  1  " 
Fleeting  fast  was  all  forbearance, 

When  in  low,  despairing  accents, 
Came  the  climax,  "  How  's  your  parents  ? 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     439 


A  SADDENED  TRAMP. 

M  Now  unto  yonder  wood-pile  go, 

Where  toil  till  I  return ; 
And  feel  how  proud  a  thing  it  is 

A  livelihood  to  earn." 
A  saddened  look  came  o'er  the  tramp  ; 

He  seemed  like  one  bereft. 
He  stowed  away  the  victuals  cold, 

He  —  saw  the  wood,  and  left. 


DELIGHTS   OF  CAMP  LIFE. 

COME  to  the  home  of  the  friendly  mosquito, 
List  to  his  cheerful  inspiriting  hum  ; 

With  his  exuberant  spirits  he  '11  greet,  O, 
All  who  will  deign  to  his  marshes  to  come. 

Come  where  the  bullfrogs  are  croaking  around  us, 
Croaking  our  choruses  back  in  our  teeth ; 

Come,  for  the  black  flies  above  do  surround  us ; 
Come  where  the  centipedes  crawl  underneath. 


A   ROMANCE. 

A  CALM,  delightful  autumn  night ; 
A  moon's  mysterious,  misty  light ; 
A  maiden  at  her  window  height, 
In  proper  robe  of  fleecy  white. 

The  little  wicket  gate  ajar  ; 
A  lover  tripping  from  afar, 
With  tuneful  voice  and  light  guitar, 
To  woo  his  radiant  guiding  star. 

The  lute  gave  forth  a  plaintive  twang  — 
Oh,  how  that  doting  lover  sang  ! 
A  bull-dog  with  invidious  fang  — 
A  nip,  a  grip,  and  then  a  pang  ! 

A  maiden  swooning  in  affright, 
A  lover  in  a  piteous  plight, 
A  canine  quivering  with  delight  — 
A  wild,  delirious  autumn  night  I 

EUGENE  FIELD. 


440  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 


OLD  TIME  AND  I. 

OLD  Time  and  I  the  other  night 

Had  a  carouse  together  ; 
The  wine  was  golden  warm  and  bright  — 

Ay  !  just  like  summer  weather. 
Quoth  I,  "  There  's  Christmas  come  again, 

And  I  no  farthing  richer.  " 
Time  answered,  "  Ah !  the  old,  old  strain,  — 

I  prithee  pass  the  pitcher. 

"  Why  measure  all  your  good  in  gold  ? 

No  rope  of  sand  is  weaker  ; 
T  is  hard  to  get,  't  is  hard  to  hold  — 

Come,  lad,  fill  up  your  beaker. 
Hast  thou  not  found  true  friends  more  true, 

And  loving  ones  more  loving  ? " 
I  could  but  say,  "  A  few  —  a  few  ; 

So  keep  the  liquor  moving." 

"  Hast  thou  not  seen  the  prosperous  knave 

Come  down  a  precious  thumper, 
His  cheats  disclosed?  "  "  I  have  —  I  have  !  " 

"  Well,  surely  that 's  a  bumper." 
"  Nay,  hold  awhile ;  I  've  seen  the  just 

Find  all  their  hopes  grow  dimmer." 
"  They  will  hope  on,  and  strive,  and  trust, 

And  conquer  ! "    "  That 's  a  brimmer." 

"'Tis  not  because  to-day  is  dark, 

No  brighter  day  's  before  'em  ; 
There  's  rest  for  every  storm-tossed  bark.  " 

"  So  be  it !     Pass  the  jorum  ! 
Yet  I  must  own  I  would  not  mind 

To  be  a  little  richer." 
"  Labor  and  wait,  and  you  may  find  — 

Hallo  I  an  empty  pitcher." 

MARK  LEMON. 


THE  HIGHWAY  COW. 

THE  hue  of  her  hide  was  dusky  brown, 
Her  body  was  lean  and  her  neck  was  slim, 

One  horn  was  turned  up  and  the  other  turned  down, 
She  was  keen  of  vision  and  long  of  limb  ; 

With  a  Roman  nose  and  a  short  stump  tail, 

And  ribs  like  the  hoops  on  a  home-made  pail. 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     441 

Many  a  mark  did  her  body  bear ; 

She  had  been  a  target  for  all  things  known ; 
On  many  a  scar  the  dusky  hair 

Would  grow  no  more  where  it  once  had  grown ; 
Many  a  passionate,  parting  shot 
Had  left  upon  her  a  lasting  spot. 

Many  and  many  a  well-aimed  stone, 

Many  a  brickbat  of  goodly  size, 
And  many  a  cudgel  swiftly  thrown 

Had  brought  the  tears  to  her  loving  eyes, 
Or  had  bounded  off  from  her  bony  back 
With  a  noise  like  the  sound  of  a  rifle-crack. 

Many  a  day  had  she  passed  in  the  pound 
For  helping  herself  to  her  neighbor's  corn  f 

Many  a  cowardly  cur  and  hound 

Had  been  transfixed  on  her  crumpled  horn ; 

Many  a  teapot  and  old  tin  pail 

Had  the  farmer-boys  tied  to  her  time-worn  tail. 

Old  Deacon  Gray  was  a  pious  man, 

Though  sometimes  tempted  to  be  profane, 

When  many  a  weary  mile  he  ran 
To  drive  her  out  of  his  growing  grain. 

Sharp  were  the  pranks  she  used  to  play 

To  get  her  fill  and  to  get  away. 

She  knew  when  the  deacon  went  to  town. 

She  wisely  watched  when  he  went  by ; 
He  never  passed  her  without  a  frown, 

And  an  evil  gleam  in  each  angry  eye ; 
He  would  crack  his  whip  in  a  surly  way, 
And  drive  along  in  his  "  one-horse  shay." 

Then  at  his  homestead  she  loved  to  call, 

Lifting  his  bars  with  crumpled  horn  ; 
Nimbly  scaling  his  garden  wall, 

Helping  herself  to  his  standing  corn ; 
Eating  his  cabbages,  one  by  one, 
Hurrying  home  when  her  work  was  done. 

His  human  passions  were  quick  to  rise, 

And  striding  forth  with  a  savage  cry, 
With  fury  blazing  from  both  his  eyes 

As  lightnings  flash  in  a  summer  sky, 
Redder  and  redder  his  face  would  grow, 
And  after  the  creature  he  would  go. 

Over  the  garden,  round  and  round, 

Breaking  his  pear  and  apple  trees ; 
Tramping  his  melons  into  the  ground, 

Overturning  his  hives  of  bees, 
Leaving  him  angry  and  badly  stung, 
Wishing  the  old  cow's  neck  was  wrung. 


442  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

The  mosses  grew  on  the  garden  wall, 

The  years  went  by  with  their  work  and  play, 

The  boys  of  the  village  grew  strong  and  tall, 
And  the  gray-haired  farmers  passed  away 

One  by  one,  as  the  red  leaves  fall ; 

But  the  highway  cow  outlived  them  all. 
Countryside.  EUGENE  J.  HALL. 


THE  HINDOO'S  DEATH. 

A  HINDOO  died ;  a  happy  thing  to  do, 

When  fifty  years  united  to  a  shrew. 

Released,  he  hopefully  for  entrance  cries 

Before  the  gates  of  Brahma's  paradise. 

"  Hast  been  through  purgatory  ?  "  Brahma  said. 

"  I  have  been  married !  "  and  he  hung  his  head. 

"Come  in  1  come  in !  and  welcome  to  my  sonl 

Marriage  and  purgatory  are  as  one." 

In  bliss  extreme  he  entered  heaven's  door, 

And  knew  the  bliss  he  ne'er  had  known  before. 


He  scarce  had  entered  in  the  gardens  fair, 

Another  Hindoo  asked  admission  there. 

The  self-same  question  Brahma  asked  again  : 

"  Hast  been  through  purgatory  ?  "  "  No ;  what  then  ?  * 

"  Thou  canst  not  enter !  "  did  the  god  reply. 

"  He  who  went  in  was  there  no  more  than  I." 

"  All  that  is  true,  but  he  has  married  been, 

And  so  on  earth  has  suffered  for  all  his  sin." 

"  Married  ?    'T  is  well,  for  I  Ve  been  married  twice.'* 

"  Begone  1    We  '11  have  no  fools  in  paradise." 

GEORGE  BIRDSEYE. 


WHY  DRINK  WINE. 

Si  bene  commemini  causae  sunt  quinque  bibere — 
Hospitis  adventus,  praesens  sitis,  atque  futura, 
Aut  vini  bonitas,  aut  quaelibet  altera  causa. 

"  If  I  the  reasons  well  divine, 
There  are  just  five  for  drinking  wine  — 
Good  wine,  a  friend,  or  being  dry, 
Or  lest  you  should  be  by  and  by, 
Or  —  any  other  reason  why." 

NOTE.  —  Ascribed  by  Notes  and  Queries  to  Dr.  Henry  Aldrich,  Dean  of 
Christ  Church,  Oxford,  A.  D.  1689-1711. 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     443 


IMPROVED   "ENOCH   ARDEN." 

PHILIP  RAY  and  Enoch  Arden 

Both  were  "  spoons  "  on  Annie  Lee. 

Phil  did  not  fulfil  her  notion  — 
She  preferred  to  wed  with  E. 

Him  she  married  and  she  bore  him 
Pretty  little  children  three ; 

But  becoming  short  of  "  rhino," 
Enoch  started  off  for  sea, 

Leaving  Mrs.  Arden  mistress 
Of  a  well-stocked  village  shop. 

Selling  butter,  soap,  and  treacle, 
Beeswax,  whipcord,  lollipop. 

Ten  long  years  she  waited  for  him, 
But  he  neither  came  nor  wrote  ; 

Therefore  she  concluded  Enoch 
Could  no  longer  be  afloat. 

So  when  Philip  came  to  ask  her 
If  she  would  be  Mrs.  Ray, 

She,  believing  herself  widowed, 
Could  not  say  her  suitor  nay. 

So  a  second  time  she  married, 

Gave  up  selling  bread  and  cheese  — 

And  in  due  time  Philip  nursed 
A  little  Ray  upon  his  knees. 

But,  alas !  the  long-lost  Enoch 
j      Turn'd  up  unexpectedly, 
And  was  vastly  disconcerted 
At  this  act  of  bigamy. 

But  on  thinking  o'er  the  matter, 

He  determined  to  atone 
For  his  lengthen'd  absence  from  her 

By  just  leaving  well  alone. 

So  he  took  to  bed  and  dwindled 
Down  to  something  like  a  shade ; 

Settled  with  his  good  landlady, 
Then  the  debt  of  nature  paid. 


444  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  when  both  the  Rays  discovered 
How  poor  Enoch's  life  had  ended, 

They  came  down  in  handsome  manner, 
And  gave  his  corpse  a  fun'ral  splendid. 

This  is  all  I  know  about  it. 

If  it 's  not  sufficient,  write 
By  next  mail  to  Alfred  Tenny 

son,  M.  P.,  Isle  of  Wight. 


MARCH. 

A  SODDEN  gray  in  the  chilly  dawn, 

A  burst  of  the  red  gold  sun  at  noon ; 
A  windy  lea  for  the  dying  day, 

And  a  wail  at  dusk  like  the  distant  loon ; 
A  ghost  at  night  in  the  leafless  larch, 
A  sigh  and  a  moan, 
And  this  is  March. 

A  frown  in  the  morning  black  and  dim ; 
A  smile  when  the  day  is  half-way  run ; 
A  moan  when  the  wind  comes  up  from  the  sea, 
And  tosses  the  larch  when  the  day  is  done. 
A  penitent,  changeful,  grewsome  thing, 
Is  this  fierce  love  child 
Of  winter  and  spring. 

It  is  mad  with  the  love  of  an  unloved  one, 

It  is  chill  with  the  winters  that  long  have  set ; 
It  is  sad  at  times  and  anon  it  laughs, 
And  is  warm  with  the  summer  that  is  not  yet. 
And  its  voice  laughs  loud  in  the  leafless  larch, 
But  to  sigh  again, 
And  this  is  March. 

A  dose  of  quinine  when  the  sun  comes  up 

From  its  tossed-up  bed  in  the  eastern  sea ; 
Some  castor-oil  when  the  moon  has  sped, 
A  blue  pill  dark  and  catnip  tea  ; 
A  decoction  made  from  the  leafless  larch, 
And  another  blue  pill, 
And  this  is  March. 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     445 

THE  MAD,  MAD  MUSE. 
(AFTER  SWINBURNE.) 

OUT  on  the  margin  of  moonshine  land, 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs, 

Out  where  the  whmg-whang  loves  to  stand, 

Writing  his  name  with  his  tail  on  the  sand, 

And  wipes  it  out  with  his  oogerish  hand ; 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs. 

Is  it  the  gibber  of  gungs  and  keeks  ? 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs, 
Or  what  is  the  sound  the  whing-whang  seeks, 
Crouching  low  by  winding  creeks, 
And  holding  his  breath  for  weeks  and  weeks  ? 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs. 

Anoint  him  the  wealthiest  of  wraithy  things  t 

Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs. 
T  is  a  fair  whing-whangess  with  phosphor  rings, 
And  bridal  jewels  of  fangs  and  stings, 
And  she  sits  and  as  sadly  and  softly  sings, 
As  the  mildewed  whir  of  her  own  dead  wings  ; 
Tickle  me,  dear ;  tickle  me  here ; 
Tickle  me,  love,  in  these  lonesome  ribs. 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY. 


A  GIRL'S  A  GIRL  FOR  A 'THAT. 

Is  there  a  lady  in  the  land 

That  boasts  her  rank  and  a'  that  ? 

With  scornful  eye  we  pass  her  by, 
And  little  care  for  a*  that : 

For  Nature's  charm  shall  bear  the  palm,  — 
A  girl 's  a  girl  for  a'  that. 

What  though  her  neck  with  gems  she  deck, 

With  folly's  gear  and  a'  that. 
And  gayly  ride  in  pomp  and  pride  ? 

We  can  dispense  with  a'  that : 
An  honest  heart  acts  no  such  part,— 

A  girl 's  a  girl  for  a*  that. 


446  THE  HUMBLER  POETS 

The  nobly  born  may  proudly  scorn 
A  lowly  lass  and  a'  that ; 

A  pretty  face  has  far  more  grace 
Than  haughty  looks  and  a'  that ; 

A  bonnie  maid  needs  no  such  aid,  — 
A  girl 's  a  girl  for  a*  that. 

Then  let  us  trust  that  come  it  must. 
And  sure  it  will  for  a'  that, 

When  faith  and  love,  all  arts  above, 
Shall  reign  supreme  and  a7  that ; 

And  every  youth  confess  the  truth,  — 
A  girl 's  a  girl  for  a'  that. 


OUT  WEST. 

I  HEAR  thee  speak  of  a  Western  land, 
Thou  callest  its  children  a  wide-awake  band  — 
Father,  oh,  where  is  that  favored  spot  ? 
Shall  we  not  seek  it  and  build  us  a  cot  ? 
Is  it  where  the  hills  of  Berkshire  stand, 
Whence  the  honey  comes  already  canned  ? 
Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  1 

Is  it  far  away  in  the  Empire  State, 
Where  Horace  Greeley  feels  first-rate, 
Where  the  people  are  ruled  by  Tammany  ring, 
And  Mr.  Fisk  is  a  railway  king, 
With  two  thousand  men  at  his  command, 
Besides  a  boat  with  a  big  brass  band  ? 
Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  1 

Is  it  where  the  little  pigs  grow  great 
In  the  fertile  vales  of  the  Buckeye  State, 
And  get  so  fat  on  acorns  and  meal 
That  they  sell  every  bit  of  them,  all  but  the  squeal, 
Where  the  butchers  have  such  a  plenty  of  hogs 
That  they  don't  make  sausages  out  of  dogs  ? 
Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  I 

Or  is  it  where  they  fortunes  make, 
Where  they  've  got  a  tunnel  under  the  lake, 
Where  the  stores  are  full  of  wheat  and  corn, 
And  divorces  are  plenty,  as  sure  as  you  're  born, 
Where  Long  John  Wentworth  is  right  on  hand,  — ' 
Is  it  there,  dear  father,  that  Western  land? 
Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  I 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.      447 

Is  it  in  the  dominions  of  Brigham  Young, 
The  most  married  man  that  is  left  unhung, 
Where  every  man  that  likes  can  go, 
And  get  forty  wives  or  more,  you  know, 
Where  "  saints  "  are  plenty  with  "  cheeks  "  sublime,  -* 
Can  that  be  the  gay  and  festive  clime  ? 
Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  1 

Is  it  where  Nevada's  mountains  rise 
From  the  alkali  plains  which  we  all  despise, 
Where  a  man  may  beg,  or  borrow,  or  steal, 
Yet  he  often  will  fail  to  get  a  square  meal, 
Where  the  rocks  are  full  of  silver  ore,  — 
Is  it  there  we  '11  find  that  Western  shore  ? 
Not  there,  not  there,  my  child  ! 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  my  verdant  youth, 
Tongue  cannot  name  it  and  speak  the  truth ; 
For  though  you  go  to  the  farthest  State, 
And  stand  on  the  rocks  by  the  Golden  Gate, 
They  '11  point  you  across  the  western  sea, 
To  the  land  whence  cometh  the  "  heathen  Chinee," 
Saying—  "T  is  there,  my  child." 


BRANDY  AND   SODA. 
(AFTER  SWINBURNE.) 

MINE  eyes  to  mine  eyelids  cling  thickly, 

My  tongue  feels  a  mouthful  and  more, 
My  senses  are  sluggish  and  sickly, 

To  live  and  to  breathe  is  a  bore. 
My  head  weighs  a  ton  and  a  quarter 

By  pains  and  by  pangs  ever  split, 
Which  manifold  washings  with  water 

Relieve  not  a  bit. 

My  longings  of  thirst  are  unlawful, 

And  vain  to  console  or  control, 
The  aroma  of  coffee  is  awful, 

Repulsive  the  sight  of  the  roll. 
I  take  my  matutinal  journal, 

And  strive  my  dull  wits  to  engage, 
But  cannot  endure  the  infernal 

Sharp  crack  of  its  page. 

What  bad  luck  my  soul  had  bedevilled, 
What  demon  of  spleen  and  of  spite, 

That  I  rashly  went  forth  and  I  revelled 
In  riotous  living  last  night  ? 


448  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

Had  the  fumes  of  the  goblet  no  odor 
That  well  might  repulse  or  restrain  ? 

O  insidious  brandy  and  soda, 
Our  Lady  of  Pain ! 

Thou  art  golden  of  gleam  as  the  summer 
That  smiled  o'er  a  tropical  sod, 

0  daughter  of  Bacchus,  the  bummer, 
A  f  oamer,  a  volatile  tod  I 

But  thy  froth  is  a  serpent  that  hisses, 
And  thy  gold  as  a  balefire  doth  shine, 

And  the  lovers  who  rise  from  thy  kisses 
Can't  walk  a  straight  line. 

1  recall  with  a  flush  and  a  flutter 
That  orgy  whose  end  is  unknown ; 

Did  they  bear  me  to  bed  on  a  shutter, 

Or  did  I  reel  home  all  alone  ? 
Was  I  frequent  in  screams  and  in  screeches  ? 

Did  I  swear  with  a  forced  affright  ? 
Did  I  perpetrate  numerous  speeches  ? 

Did  I  get  in  a  fight  ? 

Of  the  secrets  I  treasure  and  prize  most 

Did  I  empty  my  bacchanal  breast  ? 
Did  I  buttonhole  men  I  despise  most, 

And  frown  upon  those  I  like  best  ? 
Did  I  play  the  low  farmer  and  flunky 

With  people  I  always  ignore  ? 
Did  I  caracole  round  like  a  monkey  ? 

Did  I  sit  on  the  floor  ? 

O  longing  no  research  may  satiate  — 

No  aim  to  exhume  what  is  hid ! 
For  falsehood  were  vain  to  expatiate 

On  deeds  more  depraved  than  I  did  ; 
And  though  friendly  faith  I  would  flout  not, 

On  this  it  were  rash  to  rely, 
Since  the  friends  who  beheld  me,  I  doubt  not, 

Were  drunker  than  I. 

Thou  hast  lured  me  to  passionate  pastime, 

Dread  goddess,  whose  smile  is  a  snare ! 
Yet  I  swear  thou  hast  tempted  me  the  last  time  — 

I  swear  it ;  I  mean  what  I  swear  ! 
And  thy  beaker  shall  always  forebode  a 

Disgust 't  were  not  wise  to  disdain, 
O  luxurious  brandy  and  soda, 

Our  Lady  of  Pain! 

HUGH  HOWARD. 


COMEDY,  BURLESQUE,  PARODY,  EPITAPH.     449 

THAT  AMATEUR    FLUTE. 
(AFTER  POE.) 

HEAR  the  fluter  with  his  flute  — 

Silver  flute, 

Oh,  what  a  world  of  wailing  is  awakened  by  its  toot  I 
How  it  demi-semi  quavers 

On  the  maddened  air  of  night  1 
And  defieth  all  endeavors 

To  escape  the  sound  or  sight 
Of  the  flute,  flute,  flute, 
With  its  tootle,  tootle,  toot  — 
With  reiterated  tooings  of  exasperating  toots, 
The  long  protracted  tootelings  of  agonizing  toots 
Of  the  flute,  flute,  flute,  flute, 

Flute,  flute,  flute, 
And  the  wheezings  and  the  spittings  of  its  toot 

Should  he  get  that  other  flute  — 

Golden  flute  — 

What  a  deep  anguish  will  its  presence  institoot ! 
How  his  eyes  to  heaven  he  '11  raise 

As  he  plays,  all  the  days ! 
How  he  '11  stop  us  on  our  ways 

With  its  praise ! 
And  the  people,  oh,  the  people 
That  don't  live  up  in  the  steeple, 
But  inhabit  Christian  parlors 
Where  he  visiteth  and  plays  — 
Where  he  plays,  plays,  plays, 
In  the  crudest  of  ways, 
And  thinks  we  ought  to  listen, 

And  expects  us  to  be  mute 
Who  would  rather  have  an  ear-ache 
Than  the  music  of  his  flute  — 
Of  his  flute,  flute,  flute, 
And  the  tooings  of  its  toot  — 

Of  the  toos  wherewith  he  tooteleth  the  agonizing  toot, 
Of  the  flute,  flewt,  fluit,  floot, 
Phlute,  phlewt,  phlewght, 
And  the  tootle-tootle-tootle-tooing  of  its  toot 


POKER. 

To  draw,  or  not  to  draw,  that  is  the  question. 
Whether  it  is  safer  in  the  player  to  take 
The  awful  risk  of  skinning  for  a  straight, 
Or,  standing  pat,  to  raise  'em  all  the  limit. 

-;  29 


450  THE  HUMBLER  POETS. 

And  thus,  by  bluffing,  get  it.    To  draw  —  to  skin ; 
No  more  —  and  by  that  skin  to  get  a  full, 
Or  two  pairs,  or  the  fattest  bouncing  kings 
That  luck  is  heir  to  —  't  is  a  consummation 
Devoutly  to  be  wished.     To  draw  —  to  skin ; 
To  skin  !  perchance  to  burst  —  ay,  there  's  the  rub  I 
For  in  the  draw  of  three  what  cards  may  come, 
When  we  have  shuffled  off  the  uncertain  pack, 
Must  give  us  pause.     There 's  the  respect 
That  makes  calamity  of  a  bobtail  flush  ; 
For  who  would  bear  the  overwhelming  blind, 
The  reckless  straddle,  the  wait  on  the  edge, 
The  insolence  of  pat  hands,  and  the  lifts 
That  patient  merit  of  the  bluffer  takes, 
When  he  himself  might  be  much  better  off 
By  simply  passing  ?     Who  would  trays  uphold, 
And  go  out  on  a  small  progressive  raise, 
But  that  the  dread  of  something  after  call, 
The  undiscovered  ace-full,  to  whose  strength 
Such  hands  must  bow,  puzzles  the  will, 
And  makes  us  rather  keep  the  chips  we  have 
Than  be  curious  about  the  hands  we  know  not  of. 
Thus  bluffing  does  make  cowards  of  us  all, 
And  thus  the  native  hue  of  a  four-heart  flush 
Is  sicklied  with  some  dark  and  cussed  club, 
And  speculators  in  a  jack-pot's  wealth 
With  this  regard  their  interest  turn  awry 
And  lose  the  right  to  open. 


ALL  THE  SAME  IN  THE  END. 
(EPITAPH  IN  THE  HOMERSFIELD,  ENG.,  CHURCHYARD.) 

As  I  walked  by  myself  I  talked  to  myself, 

And  thus  myself  said  unto  me  : 
"  Look  to  thyself  and  take  care  of  thyself, 

For  nobody  cares  for  thee." 
So  I  turned  to  myself  and  I  answered  myself 

In  the  self -same  reverie  : 
**  Look  to  thyself  or  not  to  thyself, 

The  self-same  thing  it  will  be." 

ISAAC  Ross. 


INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINES. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES. 


PAGE 

A  baby's  boot  and  a  skein  of  wool  174 

A  barefooted  child  on  the  crossing  382 

A  bit  of  ground,  a  smell  of  earth  .  138 
A  busy  dream,   forgotten  ere    it 

fades 279 

A  calm,  delightful  autumn  night    .  439 

A  cloud  came  over  a  land  of  leaves  120 

A  dainty,  delicate  swallow-feather  93 
A    dubious,    strange,    uncompre- 

hendedlife 280 

A  Hindoo  died ;  a  happy  thing  to 

do 442 

A  little   elbow  leans   upon   your 

knee 225 

A  little  peach  in  the  orchard  grew  428 

A  little  Pull-Back  sought  one  day  433 

A  little  stream  had  lost  its  way     .  29 

A  lover  gave  the  wedding  ring  .     .  151 

A  maiden  once,  of  certain  age  .    .  43 1 
A  narrow  home,  but  very  still  it 

seemeth 316 

A  pair  of  very  chubby  legs   ...  41 
A  poor  little  bird  trilled  a  song  in 

the  west 385 

A  Rabbi  once,  by  all  admired  .     .  432 

A  sodden  gray  in  the  chilly  dawn  .  444 

A  song  for  the  girl  I  love     .     .     .  156 

A  whisper  woke  the  air   .     .     .    .  367 

Across  in  my  neighbor's  window  .  61 
Across   the  heath   and  down   the 

hill 137 

Across  the  pathway,  myrtle-fringed  149 
Across  the  rapid  stream  of  seventy 

years 277 

Ages  long  since,  upon  the  desert 

waste 123 

"  Aim  not  too  high  at  things  be- 
yond thy  reach ' r    217 


PAGE 

Alas !  how  hardly  things  go  right !  260 
Amid  the  myriad  troubles  that  meet 

us  day  by  day 239 

And  this  is  the  end  of  it  all  1  .  .  356 
Apron  on  and  dash  in  hand  .  .  391 
As  I  walked  by  myself  I  talked  to 

myself 450 

As  sailors  watch  from  their  prison    167 
As  two  proud  ships  upon  the  path- 
less main 360 

Aunt  Nellie  had  fashioned  a  dainty 

thing 70 

Beautiful  snow !  Beautiful  snow!  370 
Beyond  the  light-house,  standing 

sentinel 158 

Billy  's  dead  and  gone  to  glory  .  330 
Bleak  winds  of  the  winter,  sobbing 

and  moaning 367 

Bounding  like  a  football  ....  44 
Bright-faced  maiden,  bright-souled 

maiden 251 

Bring  him   not  here,  where  our 

sainted  feet 305 

By  Nebo's  lonely  mountain      .     .     310 
By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river      .     413 
By  the  merest  chance,  in  the  twi- 
light gloom 126 

By  thine  own  soul's  law  learn  to 

live 302 

Christ  died  for  all ;   and  on  the 

hearts  of  all 82 

Clowns  are  capering  in  motley  .  .  341 
Cold !  so  cold !  and  the  night  looks 

down 368 

Come,  my  wife,    put    down    the 

Bible 182 

Comes  little  Maud  and  stands  by 

my  knee 47 


454 


INDEX   OF    FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

Come  to  the  home  of  the  friendly 

mosquito 439 

"  Corporal  Green !  "  the  orderly 

cried 406 

Cousin  Edward,  what  do  these 

scientists  mean 437 

Dear  ole  untie,  I  dot  oor  letter  .  46 

Death  sent  his  messengers  before  308 

De  massa  ob  de  sheepfol'  .  .  .  205 

Diogenes,  surly  and  proud  .  .  .  421 

Do  I  love  her? 133 

Do  you  hear  the  scandal-mongers  390 
Do  you  remember,  when  we  came 

from  school 326 

Doth  Life  survive  the  touch  of 

Death? 314 

Draw  down  thy  curtains  close,  O 

heart! 136 

Dru  as  I  leev,  most  efry  day  .  .  62 
Each  life  has  one  grand  day :  the 

clouds  may  lie 236 

Each  thin  hand  resting  on  a  grave  412 

Elswitha  knitteth  the  stocking  blue  203 

Evening  was  falling,  cold  and  dark  63 

Far  away  under  skies  of  blue  .  .  106 

Fleet-flying  gem,  of  burnished  crest  94 

Fold  ye  the  ice-cold  hands  .  .  .  312 
Forever  and  ever  the  reddening 

leaves 180 

Friendship  doth  bind,  with  pleas- 
ant ties 161 

Friendship  needs  no  studied 

phrases 160 

From  morn  till  noon  the  golden 

glow 336 

From  saffron  to  yellow,  from  purple 

to  gray in 

From  the  elm-tree's  topmost  bough  91 

Git  yo'  pardners,  fust  kwattilion  I  435 

Give  me  a  man  with  an  aim  .  .  240 
God  hath  so  many  ships  upon  the 

sea  .- 322 

Goldenhair  climbed  upon  grand- 
papa's knee ! 58 

Golden  head  so  lowly  bending  .  .  53 
Good-night,  dear  friend!  I  say 

good-night  to  thee  ....  358 
Grandmamma  sits  in  her  quaint 

arm-chair 59 

Have  you  heard  of  Santa  Rita  ?  .  154 
Heads  that  think  and  hearts  that 

feel 247 

Hear  the  fluter  with  his  flute  .  .  449 

He  does  well  who  does  his  best  .  272 


PAGE 

He  left  a  load  of  anthracite  ...  301 

He  preached  but  little  ;  argued  less  401 

He  stole  from  my  bodice  a  rose  .  152 

He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean  266 

Her  eyes  were  bright  and  merry  .  153 

Her  lips  were  so  near 154 

Here  is  my  hand 250 

"Here  rests  in  God."  'Tis  all 

we  read 319 

Here,  you,  policeman,  just  step 

inside 334 

His  hand  at  last !  By  his  own 

fingers  writ 360 

How  do  we  know  what  hearts  have 

vilest  sin  ? 294 

How  fair  thou  art,  O  little  book  .  430 

"  How  many  miles  to  Baby-land?"  37 

How  peacefully  the  sunlight  fell  .  116 
How  prone  we  are  to  hide  and 

hoard 192 

How  should  I  choose  to  walk  the 

world  with  thee 118 

How  strong  they  are,  those  subtile 

spells 104 

"How's  your  father?"  came  the 

whisper 438 

H ow  tired  one  grows  of  a  rainy  day  1 73 

Human  hopes  and  human  creeds  .  160 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  !  ...  143 

I  believe  if  I  should  die  ....  128 
I  cannot  check  my  thought  these 

days 175 

I  can  see  you  ''re  a  gentleman  ; 

time  has  been 332 

I  count  my  treasures  o'er  with  care  81 

I  dare  not  ask  a  kisse 153 

I  dreamed  that  we  were  lovers  still  131 

I  haf  a  vunny  leedle  poy  .  ...  62 

I  hear  her  rocking  the  baby  .  .  229 
I  hear  thee  speak  of  a  Western 

land 446 

I  hold  it  better  far  that  one  should 

rule 248 

I  hold  that  we  are  wrong  to  seek  .  157 

I  know  a  duke ;  well,  let  him  pass  424 
I  know  that  deep  within  your 

heart  of  hearts 210 

I  lay  my  finger  on  Time's  wrist  to 

score 283 

I  live  for  those  who  love  me  .  .  277 
I  note  this  morning  how  the  sun- 
shine falleth 270 

I  read  to  her,  one  summer  day  .  434 

I  see  her  where  the  budding  May  190 


INDEX   OF    FIRST  LINES. 


455 


PAGE 

I  seldom  ponder  the  "  future  life  "  317 
I  send  thee  pansies  while  the  year 

is  young 96 

I  stood  and  watched  my  ships  go 

out 359 

I  think  till  I  weary  with  thinking .  303 
I  toH  my  secret  to  the  sweet  wild 

roses 126 

I  wants  a  piece  of  talito  ....  51 

I  wants  to  mend  my  wagon  ...  52 
"  I  was  born  in  Indiany,"  says  a 

stranger  lank  and  slim  .  .  .  227 
I  was  not  patient  in  that  olden 

time 265 

I  was  takin'  off  my  bonnet  .  .  .  425 

I  wonder  now  if  any  one  .  ...  67 

I  wud  knot  dye  in  wintur  .  .  .  427 
I  wus  mighty  good-lookin'  when  I 

wus  young 433 

I  'm  hastening  from  the  distant 

hills 109 

I  'm  thankful  that  the  sun  and 

moon 437 

I  'se  a  poor  little  sorrowful  baby  .  45 

I  've  got  him,  at  last,  in  the  focus  438 

If  all  our  life  were  one  broad  glare  238 
If  I  could  frame  for  you  in  cunning 

words 2ii 

If  I  could  see  with  a  midge's  eye  .  290 

If  I  had  known  in  the  morning  .  223 

If  I  should  die  to-night  ....  309 

If  I  the  reasons  well  divine  .  .  .  442 
If  light  should  strike  through 

every  darkened  place  ....  129 
If  some  great  angel  spoke  to  me 

to-night 261 

If  the  world  seems  cool  to  you  .  .  253 
If  this  were  all  —  oh  !  if  this  were 

all 256 

If  thou  dost  bid  thy  friend  farewell  355 

If  we  knew  the  woe  and  heart-ache  207 

In  search  from  A  to  Z  they  passed  72 
In  silence  mighty  things  are 

wrought 238 

In  spring,  when  branches  of  wood- 
bine   101 

In  the  best  chamber  of  the  house  .  194 
In  the  Diamond  Shaft  worked 

Gentleman  Jim 400 

In  the  light  of  the  moon,  by  the 

side  of  the  water 356 

In  the  old  and  ruined  mansion  .  .  171 

In  the  rush  of  the  merry  morning  77 

In  the  smoke  of  my  dear  cigarito  .  421 


PAGE 

In  the  soft  falling  twilight    ...  57 
Into  all  lives  some  rain  must  fall  .  304 
Is  it  parting  with  the  roundness    .  208 
"  Is  it  true  ?  "  —  that 's  the  doubt- 
ful suggestion 142 

Is  it  true,  then,  my  girl  ?  did  you 

mean  it 141 

Is  love  contagious  ?  —  I  don't  know  1 53 

Is  the  house  turned  topsy-turvy  ?  .  54 

Is  there  a  lady  in  the  land    .     .    .  445 

Is  the  road  very  dreary  ?  .     .     .     .  261 

It  was  an  English  summer  day     .  399 
Just  read  this  letter,  old  friend  of 

mine 378 

King  Frederick,  of  Prussia,  grew 

nervous  and  ill 351 

Lamar  and  his  Rangers  camped  at 

dawn 79 

Lay  me  Jow,  my  work  is  done  .     .  313 
Lean  closer,  darling,  let  thy  tender 

heart 357 

Learn  to  wait  —  life's  hardest  les- 
son    240 

"  Let  earth  give  thanks,"  the  dea- 
con said 256 

Life  hath  its  barren  years    .     .    .  235 
Life  is  a  burden  to  every  one's 

shoulder 249 

Listening,  yearning 246 

Listen  to  the  water-mill  ....  395 

List  to  a  tale  well  worth  the  ear    .  422 

Lo,  by  Nilus'  languid  waters    .     .  147 

Long  ago  a  poet  dreaming    ...  26 

Long  years  ago  I  wandered  here  .  180 

Love  came  a  beggar  to  her  gate    .  125 
Love,  give  me  one  of  thy  dear 

hands  to  hold 182 

Magdalena's  robes  are  trailing      .  244 

Make  me  a  headboard,  mister  .     .  329 

Marjorie,  with  the  waiting  face      .  361 
Midget,  gypsy,  big-eyed  elf,  little 

Kitty  Clover 69 

Millions  of  massive  rain-drops  .     .  108 
Mine  eyes  to  mine  eyelids  cling 

thickly 447 

Mozzer  bought  a  baby      ....  39 

My  cigarette !     The  amulet      .     .  214 
My  dear,  be  sensible !     Upon  my 

word 130 

My  friend,  my  chum,  my  trusty 

crony  ! 161 

My  heart  and  I  but  lately  were  at 

strife 267 

My  little  niece  and  I  —  I  read  .     .  65 


456 


INDEX   OP   FIRST  LINES. 


PAGE 

"  News  to  the  king,  good  news  for 

all!" 415 

No!  no!     I  don't  defend  him.     .  392 

Not  by  ball  or  brand 415 

Nothing  at  all  in  the  paper  to-day !  381 
"  Nought  to  be  done,"  eh?  It  was 

that  he  said 346 

"  Now  I  lay,"  — repeat  it,  darling  53 

Now  unto  yonder  wood-pile  go     .  439 
O  dreadful    Memory!    why  dost 

thou  tread 168 

Oh,  darn  it  all !  —  af  eared  of  her  .  135 

Oh  for  a  breath  o'  the  moorlands  .  219 
Oh  for  a  lodge  in    a    garden  of 

cucumbers ! 426 

Oh,  haunting  dreams  of  a  sweet 

summer  dead! 115 

Oh  !  let  the  soul  its  slumber  break  279 
Oh,  list  the  boat-horn's  wild  re- 
frain       177 

Oh  !  merry  is  the  Madrepore  that 

sits  beside  the  sea  ...         *  435 
Oh!    the  quietest  home  on  earth 

had  I 43 

Oh  the  snow,  the  beautiful  snow  .  371 

Oh  the  wonder  of  our  life     ...  287 
Oh,  thoughts  that  go  in  with  the 

stitches 226 

Oh,  touch  that  rosebud!    it  will 

bloom 136 

Oh,  yes,  we  mean  all  kind  words 

that  we  say 156 

O  little  bird!  sing  sweet  among 

the  leaves 92 

O  memories  of  green  and  pleasant 

places 1 68 

O  star  on  the  breast  of  the  river  !  97 
O  strange  sweet  loveliness!      O 

tender  grace 127 

O'er  the  sunlit  hills  of  Berkshire  .  410 
Old  Time  and  I  the  other  night    .  440 
Once  in  the  days  of  old    .     .    .     .  132 
Once  more  we   stand  with  half- 
reluctant  feet 85 

Once   Venus,   deeming  Love  too 

fat 43i 

One  by  one  the  old-time  fancies  .  170 
One  stormy  morn  I  chanced  to 

meet 138 

Only  a  baby's  rattle 48 

Only  a  baby  'thout  any  hair      .    .  39 
Only  a  man  dead  in  his  bed  — 

that  is  all ! 387 

Only  a  rose  in  a  glass 99 


PAGE 

Only  a  woman,  shrivelled  and  old !  370 
Only  one  moment  unfettered  by 

care 322 

Our  Daisy  lay  down 44 

Out  of  the  clover  and  blue-eyed 

grass     .........  405 

Out  of  the  mists  of  childhood  .  .  78 
Out  on  the  margin  of  moonshine 

land 445 

Out,  out  in  the  night,  in  the  chill 

wintry  air 391 

Over  my  soul  the  great  thoughts 

roll 140 

Over  the  telegraph  wires  .  .  .  384 
Over  the  threshold  a  gallant  new- 
comer    86 

Over  the  west  the  glory  dies  away  202 

Pallid  white  the  moonlight  gloweth  366 
Patter  I  patter  !  running  feet !  .129 

Philip  Ray  and  Enoch  Arden  .  .  443 

Play  on  I  play  on  !  As  softly  glides  212 

Poet,  sit  and  sing  to  me  ....  24 

Prop  yer  eyes  wide  open,  Joey  .  340 
Rest  in  the  grave !  but  rest  is  for 

the  weary 315 

"  Rock  of  Ages,  cleft  for  me  "  .  .  305 

Rose  dreamed  she  was  a  lily  .  .  108 
Searching  for  strawberries  ready 

to  eat 393 

Serene  I  fold  my  hands  and  wait  .  255 

She  always  stood  upon  the  steps  .  50 
She  folded  up  the  worn  and 

mended  frock 258 

She  makes  no  moan  abov*  her 

faded  flowers 271 

She  stood  at  the  bar  of  justice  .  .  388 

She  stood  at  the  clumsy  loom  .  .  285 

Sitting  here  by  my  desk  all  day  .  384 

Slowly,  steadily,  under  the  moon  .  291 
Small  boy  Bertie  drumming  on 

the  pane 66 

So  are  the  stars  and  the  arching 

skies 32 

Somebody's  heart  is  gay  ....  281 
Some  find  Love  late,  some  find 

him  soon 123 

Some  find  work  where  some  find 

rest 282 

Some  love  the  glow  of  outward 

show  * 272 

Some  quick  and  bitter  words  we 

said 140 

Some  sings  of  the  lily,  and  daisy, 

and  rose 105 


INDEX   OP    FIRST  LINES. 


457 


PAGE 

Sometimes  I  smile,  sometimes  I 

sigh 284 

Sometimes  —  not  often  —  when  the 

days  are  long 163 

Sometime,  when  all  life's  lessons 

have  been  learned 234 

Somewhere,  out  on  the  blue  seas 

sailing 237 

Spread  a  feast  with  choicest  viands  144 
Stay  with  me,  Poesy  !  playmate 

of  childhood  ! 23 

Still  are  the  ships  that  in  haven 

ride 238 

Such  beautiful,  beautiful  hands  !  .  221 
Sweetheart,  good-by  !  The  flutter- 

ing  sail 361 

Sweet  lady,  let  your  lids  unclose  .  98 
Take  for  your  hero  some  thorough- 
bred scamp 32 

Talking  of  sects  till  late  one  eve  .  296 
Teach  you  French?  I  will,  my 

dear! .  134 

Tears  of  gold  the  heavens  wept  .  109 

The  banks  are  all  a  bustin',  Nance  267 
The  birds  no  more  in  dooryard 

trees  are  singing 343 

The  blessed  hush  of  eventide  .  .  373 
The  bluest  gray  —  the  grayest  blue  117 
The  chimes,  the  chimes  of  Mother- 
land   294 

The  clock  strikes  seven  in  the  hall  55 

The  course  of  the  weariest  river  .  325 

The  fairest  flower  upon  the  vine  .  158 
The  fire  in  the  west  burns  low  .  .213 

The  fire  upon  the  hearth  is  low  .  54 

The  glamour  of  the  after-light  .  .  199 
The  great  Pacific  journey  I  have 

done 426 

The  hands  are  such  dear  hands  .  193 
The  hue  of  her  hide  was  dusky 

brown 440 

The  kindly  words  that  rise  within 

the  heart 31 

The  king  from  the  council  chamber  30 

The  lazy,  languid  breezes  sweep  .  150 
The  long  lines  stretched  from  west 

to  east 96 

The  Lord,  who  fashioned  my  hands 

for  working 242 

The  maid,  as  by  the  papers  doth 

appear  43° 

The  needles  have  dropped  from 

her  nerveless  hands  ....  84 

The  night  has  a  thousand  eyes  .  125 


PAGE 

The  night  hours  wane,  the  bleak 

winds  of  December     ....  175 

The  noble  river  widens  as  we  drift  321 
The  oak  is  a  strong  and  stalwart 

tree 78 

The  old  man  sits  in  his  easy-chair  296 
The  orchard-lands  of  Long  Ago  !  .  191 
The  orchards  that  climb  the  hill- 
sides       101 

The  parson  goes  about  his  daily 

ways 323 

The  pastor  sits  in  his  easy-chair  .  188 
The  Reverend  Eliab  Eliezer    .     .  292 
The  road  was  straight,  the  after- 
noon was  gray 266 

The  royal  feast  was  done  ;  the  king  300 
The  sea  at  the  crag's  base  bright- 
ens     222 

The  sea  crashed  over  the   grim 

gray  rocks 290 

The  setting  sun,  with  dying  beams  348 
The  singer  stood  in  a  blaze  of 

light 228 

The  sunlight  on  a  waveless  sea  .  199 
The  supper  is  over,  the  hearth  is 

swept 220 

The  wet  wind  sobs  o'er  the  sodden 

leas 365 

The  woodland,  and  the  golden 

wedge 105 

The  work  of  the  sun  is  slow  .  .  255 
The  world  is  ever  as  we  take  it  .233 
"The  world  is  very  beautiful!  "  I 

said 25 

The  year  begins.  I  turn  the  leaf  87 
The  yellow  death  came  stealing  .  345 
The  yellow-hammer  came  to  build 

his  nest 95 

There  are  days  of  silent  sorrow  .  262 
There  are  sounds  in  the  sky  when 

the  year  grows  old  ....  82 
There  came  to  port  last  Sunday 

night 41 

There  comes  a  month  in  the  weary 

year 115 

There  dawn  dear  memories  of  the 

past 169 

There  in  her  high-backed  chair 

she  sits 202 

There  is  a  rainbow  in  the  sky  .  .  108 
There  is  one  spot  on  all  the  earth  172 
There  's  a  jolly  Saxon  proverb  .  .  423 
There's  many  a  rest  on  the  road 

of  life 254 


458 


INDEX   OF    FIRST   LINES. 


There 's  no  use  of  your  talking,  for 

mamma  told  me  so  .     .    .    . 
There  was  a  rose-bush  in  a  garden 

growing 

They  come  in  the  quiet  twilight 

hour 

They  sit  in  the  winter  gloaming  . 
They  soon  grow  old  who  grope  for 

gold 

They  stood  above  the  world  .  . 
Things  has  come  to  a  pretty  pass . 
This  grave  were  ye  meanin', 

stranger  ? 

This  mortal  body  that  I  wear  .  . 
This  year  —  next  year  —  sometime 

—  never 

Thou  dark-robed  man  with  solemn 

pace 

Thou  hast  diamonds  and  pearls  of 

rare  beauty 

Thou  hast  not  gold  ?   Why,  this  is 

gold 

Time  to  me  this  truth  hath  taught 
Tired!  Well,  what  of  that?  .  . 
'T  is  home  where'er  the  heart  is  . 
*"T  is  really  time  you  were  out,  I 

think" 

'Tis  the  golden  gleam  of  an  au- 
tumn day 

To  draw,  or  not  to  draw,  that  is 

the  question 

To  touch  a  broken  lute    .... 

'T  was  but  a  breath 

'T  was  midnight ;  not  a  sound  was 

heard    

'T  was  near  the  break  of  day,  but 

still 

'T  was  springtime  of  the  day  and 

year 

Two  centuries  of  steps  and  then  . 
Two  little  ones,  grown  tired  of 

play.    .    .    . 

Up  in  early  morning  light    . 
Upon  a  mountain  height,  far  from 

the  sea 

Upon  life's  highway  I  was  hasten- 
ing    

Upon  the  brown  and  frozen  sod  . 
Was  it  a  lie  that  they  told  me  .  . 
Was  the  parting  very  bitter  ?  .  . 
Wave  by  wave  o'er  the  sandy 

bar 

We  asked  where  the  magic  came 

from        '.     . 


PAGE 

38 


200 

211 


449 
259 
367 

69 
407 

124 
320 

348 
224 

108 

376 
i  to 
307 
241 


57 


PAGE 

We  can  only  live  once ;  and  death's 

terrors 289 

We  die  not  at  all,  for  our  deeds 

remain 236 

We  grasp  a  hand,  we  think  it  true 

and  strong 264 

We  just  shake  hands  at  meeting  .     162 
We    meet    'neath    the    sounding 

rafter 409 

We  say  it  for  an  hour  or  for  years    355 
We  slight  the    gifts    that    every 

season  bears 280 

We  two  will  stand  in  the  shadow 

here 350 

Well,    Mary,    me    darlint,     I'm 

lauded  at  last 429 

Well,  wife,  I  've  found  the  model 

church  ! 299 

Well,  young  'un,   you  're  mighty 

smooth  spoken 338 

What  care  I  for  the  tempest  ?  .     .     146 
What  did  the  baby  come  for  ?   .     .       73 
What  did  the  baby  go  for  ?  .    .     .      74 
What  is  the  life  of  man  ?    A  pass- 
ing shade 288 

What  shall   I  wish  thee  for  the 

coming  year  ? 162 

What  ?  Sho' !  You  don't !  Do  you 

mean  it,  though  ? 394 

When    brothers    leave    the    old 

hearthstone 218 

When  Death  from  some  fair  face  .  313 
When  I  knowed  him  at  first  there 

was  suthin' 397 

When  life's  troubles  gather  darkly  243 
When  she  did  her  hair  at  night  .  185 
When  the  day  with  all  its  splendor  204 
When  the  frost  is  on  the  punkin  .  117 
When  the  humid  shadows  hover  .  27 
When  the  morning  fair  and  sweet  184 
When  the  silence  of  the  midnight  186 
When  thou  art  weary  of  the  world, 

and  leaning .     319 

When    we    see    our    dream-ships 

slipping 187 

Where  are  the  flowers?  where  the 

leaves? 113 

Where  bums  the  fireside  brightest  217 
Where  grass  grows  short  and  the 

meadows  end 100 

Where  moss-made  beds  are  bright- 
est by  the  river 269 

Whether  my  heart  be  glad  or  no  .  268 
Whichever  way  the  wind  doth  blow  271 


INDEX   OF    FIRST  LINES. 


459 


PAGE 

While  mother  is  tending  baby  .  .  46 
While  o'er  my  life  still  hung  the 

morning  star 103 

"  Who  '11  take  care  of  the  baby  ? "  72 
Who  shall  judge  man  from  his 

manner 263 

Why  all  this  toil  for  triumphs  of 

an  hour 283 

Why,  Bob,  you  dear  old  fellow  .  436 

Willy  and  Charley,  eight  and  ten  .  64 

Wind,  and  the  sound  of  a  sea  .  .  24 

With  klingle,  klangle,  klingle  .  .  205 


PAGE 

Worn  voyagers,  who  watch  for  land  185 
Would  I  were  lying  in  a  field  of 

clover 212 

Yes,  I  've  been  a  deacon  of  our 

church 178 

Yes,  stone  the  woman,  let  the  man 

go  free  ! 396 

You  came  to  us  once,  O  brothers, 

in  wrath 416 

You  laugh  as  you  turn  the  yellow 

page 176 

You  see  it  first  near  the  dusty  road  119 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


NOV  221947 


PR  28   1948 


16Jun'49HJA 


2  5  1953  LU 


2Feb'56CT 
JUKI  9  1956  C® 


REC'D 


1957- 


LD  21-100m-9,'47(A5702sl6)476 


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GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


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